


Clark Kent's Other Secret

by stardust_empyrean



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Breastfeeding, Dirty Talk, Feminization, Identity Porn, M/M, Male Lactation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-01-29 09:13:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12627747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_empyrean/pseuds/stardust_empyrean
Summary: Being an alien certainly did have its disadvantages. Always feeling out of place, having to hide your powers, making sure your fellow employees didn't see that the superhero that saved them every day had the exact same face as their soft-spoken coworker, just to name a few. It was definitely harder to earn the respect of your peers who were aware of your heritage, because what you were always came before who you were.That, and the embarrassing alien biology that came along with it that you could barely explain to yourself. That was definitely the worst part about it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written anything that i considered finished in a few years, and it's been longer than that that i've written anything erotic. this is a little rusty, and longer than i was anticipating on it being; my weaknesses as a writer are that i give too much exposition and too much detail to things that don't matter, so my style is a bit hard to format to a basic fanfic. i know this is a bit of a weird kink, but i tried my hardest to make this sexy. this was more like an exercise, than anything, and i was encouraged by my friends to post it.
> 
> a couple of things to keep in mind: in order to make the choking aspects of this work, and by golly did i want that boy to get choked, clark needs to be able to breathe, so this sort of goes along the idea that clark can hold his breath for an inhumanly long amount of time, but he still needs to breathe. it bothers me and makes no sense to me when he's depicted as being able to survive without needing to breathe. superman is too overpowered, but he sure is cute.
> 
> also, this is purely smut with context, so it doesn't go off of any particular continuity. if you need to know, i was thinking about superman: earth one while writing this.
> 
> also also, there's light d/s in this but it didn't feel right tagging it because it's mostly just bruce being batman.
> 
> if this received well enough, i might add a second chapter playing with identity kinks because that's my favorite, FAVORITE thing about superbat. that, and how they're definitely married.
> 
> c&c appreciated! please enjoy!

Not a day went by without Clark dreaming about what it meant to be human.

Clark Kent, not Superman, was an average person. Aside from the fact that he had superhuman abilities, which wasn’t a very easy fact to disregard, given how Clark could, for starters, fly, and shoot laser beams from his eyes, and ignoring the subsequent fact that he would don a new persona and protect the world from total annihilation with other bombastically-dressed superhumans on a near-daily basis, Clark would say he had a pretty normal life. He grew up in an average town in the geographic Midwest, he was the only son to a pair of average, loving farmers, he’d had an average, healthy social—and romantic--life in his youth, and he was currently living in a sprawling city working a horrendously stressful and below-average job that barely paid the bills. He still maintained contact with his mother, he got along with his coworkers, for the most part, and he didn’t have any extensive complexes surrounding his childhood that he carried into adulthood that impacted his decision-making and overall wellbeing. Clark was as normal as it got.

His life as Clark Kent was what he wished he could have had, exclusively, every day for the rest of his life. His life as Superman, however wonderful the existence of which had made the world, was what Clark wished he could have changed.

Clark was especially grateful for his average upbringing, no doubt about it; he definitely considered himself more privileged than others, despite the entire nature of his existence, but being as kindhearted as he was, it didn’t give him a sense of entitlement or superiority, as one might be inclined to do upon becoming a superhuman. Recognizing his privilege was part of how he learned to help those who were less fortunate. His parents had raised him to be loving, gentle, caring, an all-around nice person, and by golly, Clark’s generosity was one of his defining, and proudest, traits. It was what allowed him to be Superman, it was what allowed him to live the life he currently did, protecting humanity, saving lives, and making the world a better place. Heck, even when he wasn’t in his super suit, he was still donating to charity (reputable ones, not ones that helped one demographic but harmed another, and definitely not PETA, those people were very strange, and one aspect of humanity Clark would never truly grasp), giving to the homeless, offering his umbrella to those caught in the rain without one of their own. Even outside of Superman, outside of his upbringing, Clark was always, always, putting others before himself.

That was simply his nature, and Clark wouldn’t have it any other way. He was naturally demure, naturally mild-mannered. It was why Perry was always down his throat, adding more to his impossible workload, and why Batman, and probably other members of the League, maybe, didn’t see him as a peer, as an equal. It was that, and probably the whole alien thing, too. Well, with Batman, it was definitely the alien thing.

Being the sole survivor of an extinct alien race was one thing that definitely bummed Clark out, but was one thing he certainly tried to ignore when he could. What could be done about it? There were aspects of being Kryptonian that certainly made living a normal life on earth difficult, and definitely made specific attributes of Clark’s life, specifically, hard to cope with, but being personally victimized by Batman, for no gosh darn reason, was definitely one of the harder points of being non-human. That guy really knew how to get under your skin!

Clark, admittedly, would get frustrated when Batman would talk over him, when Batman would bark orders at him in a different tone than he did the others, and when Batman would outright ignore him unless he was reporting to him. Batman definitely looked down at Clark, despite him being the strongest member of the entire League, and it was made worse, in part, by his gentle nature. Clark wondered if Batman saw him as an easy target to let loose his frustrations and assert himself further as the head of the League, but Clark wanted to be more trusting of Batman, even if trust was the last thing Batman was willing to feel for his deemed rival.

Before even forming the League, which Clark didn’t want to accept, but part of him had speculated, that had been formed, in part, to keep others like Clark in check, where he could keep an eye on them, Batman had always been heavily, heavily against Clark coming to his city for virtually any reason. Clark could understand this to an extent—Batman had cultivated his own identity in Gotham as its one true crime-fighter, and those that followed in his wake, like that handsome man Nightwing, were only there because of him. Batman had created himself within Gotham, much like Superman created himself in Metropolis. Batman had been able to protect his city on his own, without the help on an alien. This was something Clark could understand, even if Batman had never vocalized it.

When the inevitability, Clark saw it, of them crossing paths occurred, however, Batman decided to completely disregard Clark’s established credibility as a superhero. One of Superman’s villains had gone to Gotham to try to wreak havoc and level the city there? Nope, Batman was on him like a fly drawn to honey the second he entered Gotham airspace to try to neutralize the situation.

“You have five minutes to get your ass out of here and back to your own turf, Superman,” Batman had growled at him. Okay, that didn’t seem entirely fair, but sure, fine. One of Batman’s baddies had come to Metropolis, his jurisdiction, to negotiate some underground, illegal dealings that would cause the crime rates of both cities to skyrocket, and Clark was the only one who could deliver them back to where they could face their due justice at the hands of the vigilante, which seemed to be what Batman’s endgame was? Nope, because, somehow, Black Mask wanting to set up a drug trade through both cities and conducting business in Metropolis was something Superman should have prevented in the first place. This situation, according to Batman, shouldn’t have even arisen.

“Wouldn’t that technically make it your fault, then?” Clark always had more confidence to voice his feelings and concerns when he was wearing his suit. His suit empowered him in ways that being plain old Clark Kent couldn’t. He crossed his arms and wore a smirk on his face, while Batman’s back was turned to him as he was tying up Black Mask his style.

“No, and I’ll repeat myself again.” Clark always felt like he was being spoken to like a child whenever Batman was addressing him. “This,” he turned to look at Clark, pointing at Black Mask, then gesturing between the two of them, “could have been prevented if you’d have been paying attention to the proper channels. Literally any crime lord in Metropolis should have been aware of Mask’s presence there, because this guy isn’t some small-time dealer working some unpopulated alley, getting some idiots to buy his goods. Absolutely any sleuthing could have uncovered his plan. Any detective work at all would have been enough for to you have been able to figure out this guy was there, what he was doing, and who else was involved. Look, do you understand, at all, why I might be a bit terse with you? Why I think your way of handling this issue was a bit extreme, like usual?”

Batman had always lectured him like that before the League was formed. Most of the time, Clark couldn’t quite grasp what, exactly, he’d done to make Batman so angry with him, but, fortunately, he was able to ignore him, in kind, which definitely seemed to make Batman equally, if not more, frustrated. Clark could understand his feelings and reluctance on joining together for a unified cause, while, admittedly, a lot of it was pure speculation, since the Bat never spoke about himself. Clark was an alien, which Batman never seemed to forget, as it, along with his naivety and kindness, was always the first complaint he would bring up when chastising the boy in blue. In addition to being an alien, Clark was the last of his kind, meaning Batman would never have another example with which to compare Clark to. Was Clark a product of his environment, or a product of his biology?

Lastly, and perhaps, most importantly, Batman, without performing thorough examinations and studies, would never know the true extent of Clark’s powers. Batman would never know how much control Clark had over his abilities, if they could be turned against him, against mankind. Did Clark have a switch? Could Clark’s animalistic instincts arise at the slightest aggravation? Just how much humanity did he have?

At least, these were questions Clark would ask if he were in Batman’s place. When he was younger, less confident in his abilities, he’d ask himself similar questions. Clark had gone through a period where he doubted his own humanity, when he wondered what it had meant to be Kryptonian, but soon he had embraced who he was, much like he wished the rest of the world, much like he wished Batman, could.

Clark couldn’t change the fact that he was an alien, however. Clark wished every day to be human. He wished every day to be an average man, with average strength, no frost breath, nothing that made him alien. He was grateful, of course, but this gift he had been blessed with was also a curse. Clark just wanted to live a quiet life. In the end, Clark wanted nothing more than for Batman to see him for who he was, instead of for _what_ he was.

While Clark was eternally indebted to his powers and his alien heritage, while he knew that being inhuman was what made his life what it was now, and while, even given the chance, he wouldn’t abandon his identity even if it made the associated problems go away, because ridding the world of Superman would be ensuring the world’s ruin, there were definitely times Clark wished that his life could have been a bit more comfortable.

And a little less embarrassing, at that.

Unless literally nothing was happening in their respective cities, each member of the League was to give a report on the criminal activity in their jurisdiction. Some days, if they were lucky, the only things worth reporting were larger-scale thefts and robberies that fell outside of the realm of the local police. Batman, of course, had always had more to report than just what small-time thugs were up to. Batman knew not every city was like Gotham, where something major was happening nearly every single night, but he would try to persuade the other members of the League to do more than just crime-fighting. He wanted the League to have the same sort of assimilated presence in their cities as he did with his own.

All of this had sounded fine and dandy to Clark, but it was always a little disconcerting for Batman to give what was essentially a speech at the start of nearly every day, only for his turn to come up immediately after and report that all he’d done was help put out a burning building and retrieve an old lady’s purse. Metropolis just wasn’t like Gotham! Besides, Clark could trust his local police far more than Batman could trust his own, which Clark did his best to take into consideration.

Clark usually used his moment to speak as an attempt to get Batman to see that the alien in him wasn’t his identity. Clark strategically chose to focus more on the wholesome tasks he would perform, rather than the ones that made him appear the most powerful and intimidating. He could see the look of irritation in Batman’s face whenever he would talk about helping a family find their lost daughter downtown, but this was all a part of the image Clark wanted Superman to have. Batman was more like a night man, whereas Superman was his opposite, a day man.

Admittedly, Batman’s report was a little hard to follow. The man had a dry way of speaking, and while Clark wanted to show his utmost respect, something Batman couldn’t even be bothered to do for him, he always found himself slipping in and out of his day dreams. Clark always did his best to get the gist of what Batman was saying, but this time in particular, though, it was proving to be a bit more difficult.

His chest was beginning to feeling tight, which was an uncomfortably, dreadfully familiar sensation for Clark, but one he hadn’t been anticipating on happening so soon in the month. He felt a lump in his throat once he was aware of his condition, a sudden wave of anxiety, and heat, washing over him and slowly captivating him. It caught him off guard, to feel the sudden contraction of his pectorals, to feel his breath momentarily escape him, and to feel his nipples begin to tingle. He could feel rivulets of warm liquid beginning to flow through his chest like streams through a forest, and he felt an accompanied, emboldened warmth at the pit of his stomach, nearly physical, which was arguably the worst part of all of this.

This-- _this_ \--was what Clark felt he could do without.

His face began to color as his pecs, his _breasts_ , were beginning to prepare themselves around his peers, around his fellow heroes. Clark could usually tell a few days in advance—his chest would begin to ache, a slow, dull ache, nothing serious. He would feel heightened arousal, difficult to abate, perhaps running a consistent fever; at least, what was considered a fever for Superman. If he squeezed on his pec hard enough, perhaps a droplet of milk would form from his gradually sensitizing nipple, but these were all signs, nothing, at all, compared to the real thing, when Clark would lactate for days straight.

His discomfort was growing, he was becoming restless in his seat, and no one was of the wiser. Clark’s hands balled into fists as he took a subtle look around the long table, his heart accelerating, sweat beginning to form on his brow as he tried not to focus on his nipples becoming tenderer and tenderer as they prepared their flow. Everyone was focused on Batman speaking. No one knew, no one could tell what was happening to the Kryptonian, no one could tell what was happening to his masculine bosom. Clark had never felt more horrified. This couldn’t be happening.

He couldn’t do this. He could feel his nipples hardening, and their chafing against his suit was so distractingly delightful, and sinful. Soon, the milk was going to begin leaking, staining his suit, alerting everyone to what was happening, letting everyone see the state his heavy breasts were in. If they knew, if they knew that Clark Kent lactated like a pregnant woman, he would never be taken seriously again. Batman would see him as some perverted pig, some disgusting _freak_ , with any chance of Clark being seen for his humanity thrown out the window. He could only imagine himself being seen for his disgusting display, and while the notion terrorized him, it strengthened the heat between his legs, and even that would become noticeable, and make his predicament and perception far worse.

It was one thing to have milk dripping from your breasts, but to be visibly aroused by it was something else entirely. 

Clark began to feel tense, his anxiety heightening, the cold fear mingling with the hot milk flowing through his breasts. He had to leave, he had to retreat somewhere where he could take care of this, take care of himself, before his entire situation, and integrity, were compromised.

“—and that brings us to our next report of the day. Superman, do you want to tell us what’s been happening in Metropolis recently?”

Oh, gosh dangit, now he was expected to answer! He was hoping he could just politely excuse himself to the little hero’s room during Batman’s tirade, but now all eyes were on him! Their intent stares, their focused gazes—it made his chest and stomach grow even warmer, their looks setting his nerves on fire. This was bad; this was worse than bad, this was as bad as it could have gotten. Now he was expected to say something!

Clark could definitely feel the heat rising in his face and to the tips of his ears. He must have looked so stupid, just standing there in his stupor. Batman quirked an eyebrow, and placed a hand on his hip.

“Got stage fright? Come on, Superman, we’re waiting to hear your report. You did prepare one, right? Or were you too busy helping kittens down from trees to be able to fit it into your schedule?”

Oh, please, not the ridicule! Clark couldn’t take this! He had to go, he had to go now, before his milk came out!

“I—I’ve actually—“ Clark was biting his lip. For someone who could move faster than a speeding bullet, he sure was having a hard time getting his gears turning to think of a good excuse.

“Well?” Batman was beginning to sound irritated, which was usually most of the time, but was especially the case as he tried to get a response out of Clark.

“Are you feeling quite well, Superman?” Diana spoke up, her voice with a lilt of amusement, as well as concern. Concern that made Clark fret even more—concern that would have been withdrawn had she known how filthy Clark and his breasts were.

Clark couldn’t focus. He was starting to feel overwhelmed, it was getting too hard to think, and the more he stood there, making a fool of himself, the more likely his secret was to come out—a secret more dangerous than his identity. He had to get out, fast.

“I don’t—know,” he was beginning to lose his breath, feeling light-headed from his arousal and stress. “I have to—go, ah, D-Diana, you can go next, I’ll—I’ll go when I get back, I’ll be right back!” And with that, he was out of the room in a blur of blue and red. He couldn’t chance glancing behind him to see their expressions—Batman could be as mad as he wanted, he’d make up for it later, once his milk had been taken care of, and his head cleared up.

The Watchtower was almost cavernous with the amount of space it’d had, which had made it a bit difficult at the beginning to learn one’s way throughout the place. As it stood presently, each member of the League, few in number they were, had their own designated spaces should they need a place to rest, or to recuperate, and while there was a chance these rooms wouldn’t persist once they’d acquired more heroes, Clark was definitely, _definitely_ thankful that he’d had a private chamber all to himself during his time of desperation. He was there in a blink of an eye, where no one else would see him, where he wouldn’t be bothered as he began to strip out of his suit and witness his heaving, heavy breasts.

He felt hot, impossibly so. He felt like he was in a sauna, he was sweating profusely, and his first move was to turn the ac on as low as he could without feeling guilty about the ozone layer, but in his fevered state, that was the least of his concerns. His breasts were beginning to throb, the streams of milk flowing harder and faster, his nipples pert and beginning to leak. He wiped off the sweat from his brow, and used a small towel to wipe at the liquid beginning to stain his torso, carefully avoiding his nipples—the rough texture of the towel would have been too much for his swollen nubs. He was panting like he’d just ran a marathon, and he took both of his breasts in his hands, feeling their weight. Clark was immune to most things, but even as a Kryptonian soaking in yellow sun radiation, he still had his erogenous zones, and his breasts were big ones, especially so during his cycle.

He was so sensitive, so tender. He was hesitant, at first, of alleviating himself, paranoia and shame as present in his mind as the intoxicating lust. He’d settled on simple caressing and lightly holding his chest as the pearly white liquid began to trickle from his enflamed nipples. He took for pacing around his room, silently cursing himself, cursing his disposition, and cursing his fortitude for manners at a time like this, trying to maintain a collected mind even as his arousal began to cloud his senses. He wasn’t at home, he wasn’t at his apartment, he wasn’t at a place he could call his own—this was so shameful, so distasteful, so _dirty_.

He shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t milk himself. He shouldn’t milk his breasts, not like this.

“Ah,” he let out a soft moan, hoping to Rao that none of the other members of the League had such acute hearing as he. As much as he could wish it to be otherwise, his pain, his need, was overruling any rationality, or perceived rationality.

“Please, stop, please just—mmh—“ He willed his breasts to stop, to wait until he could be home safe and sound, but they wouldn’t listen to him. His own body was betraying him, and he could do nothing but give in.

It was so easy, so enticingly easy, to grasp just a bit harder on his breasts, to get more of the depraved liquid to come out, to relieve him of the tension, of the heat. Then, after he would empty his breasts until they filled up again, he would release himself of his other desires associated with his lactation. This wasn’t his place, his home, but as he held his breasts in his hands, it was becoming harder, and harder—

Something firm and solid pressed up against his back, supporting him; he must have leaned against the wall in his hazy state. It was so hard to focus.

Harder—

His hands ran through his hair, keeping it from sticking to his brow with sweat, confusion setting in and robbing him of his senses as hands—his hands?—began to squeeze hard, harder—

“Do you need me to squeeze harder?”

A gruff voice rumbled in his ear, hot breath stimulating his sensitive ear and making him whine pathetically. His words made his nerves tingle, reverberating throughout his entire being. Clark was panting impossibly hard. He wanted more of that voice, more of that vibrato.

The realization that someone other than Clark was in his room was a bit delayed, but the fevered state of his mind made it hard for him to be terribly concerned, much with the realization that someone other than himself was growling in his ear, and that someone other than him was holding up his heavy breasts. Clark let out another sound when he was made aware of all of this, but caring was so hard right now.

Clark did, however, make a feeble attempt at pulling away, reason trumping lust for a fraction of a second, but Batman kept his back pressed firm against his chest, trapping him in place—not that the Clark during his heat would have any reasonable, appropriate complaints. His hands were bare, the gloves removed, as he was groping at Clark’s chest, his calloused tips like pin pricks against his sensitive breasts. It felt good, impossibly good, but Clark knew this was wrong. Clark was in such a precarious situation, and Batman, the one man he wanted to impress the most, the one man whose respect meant most to him, was there, breathing on him, holding him, molesting him.

When did he even get into the room? Were Clark’s senses so hazy when he lactated that he’d been unknowingly encroached upon? Was this more dangerous than Clark had previously surmised?

What was Batman doing, and why did it feel so good?

“Please,” Clark breathed out. It was all that he could muster. He couldn’t help but let his heavy head fall back against Batman’s shoulder. His throat was exposed, and Batman brought a hand up to caress it, to hold it firmly, while his other hand continued to grope him. Clark felt more persistent throbbing between his legs at Batman’s touch, at his hand wrapped possessively around his neck. “Please, stop, don’t—“

“I’m not going to stop.” Batman’s voice was so deep, so smooth, so assertive, and it only served to make Clark’s cock throb harder. He pinched his milky nipple, and Clark started, gasping, reaching around to grasp at Batman’s hips to help ground himself before he lost his mind. “You know what you did today, Superman? You disobeyed a very direct order. You knew it was your turn to speak when I told you as much.”

Clark’s eyes were screwed shut. Maybe if he closed them, maybe if he couldn’t see Batman, he would go away. Maybe this wasn’t happening. There’s no way in the world Batman would hold his breasts while he lactated, and whisper in his ear like some impossible wet dream.

Batman’s mouth got closer to his ear, and he began breathing directly into it. Clark’s mouth was wide open, and the feeling of Batman’s hot breath was making Clark feel like he’d had electricity coursing through his veins. It was becoming so hard to hear what he was actually saying. “I gave you an order, Superman, but you disobeyed me. I told you to speak, but you just ignored that, ran off, left me to clean up your mess. And what did I find you doing? What did I come in here and find?”

He groped harder at his breast, and milk spurted out at the sudden squeeze. Clark let out a strangled moan, and Batman continued stroking his throat, almost coaxing the noises out.

“What did I find, Superman? What were you doing?” His voice was so demanding, and Clark loved it, was beginning to crave it.

Clark could barely answer. Clark could barely stay conscious; he was so overly stimulated and drowning in his own lust. He was barely aware of what Batman was saying, fixating solely on his tone; all he could focus on was the hand on his breast, grasping harder, and harder, causing more milk to flow. Batman was holding him with such force, like Clark was just an object, like Batman didn’t care about his sensitive state.

“I—I was—lactating—“ Clark forced out the dirty word like he was choking. The hand on his throat was firm, but not tight. It wasn’t like the hand playing with his breast. He couldn’t breathe because the heat in his body was cloying.

“You were,” Batman growled out. “You deliberately disobeyed me so you could come in here and let your bitch tits hang out.”

Clark couldn’t suppress his moan at that. His dick was throbbing so hard at the demeaning words he’d used to describe him. Batman’s other hand stroked his throat a few more times before trailing back down and cupping his other swollen pec—his bitch tit—in his hand. Both hands were gripping hard, forcing the milk out in such a disgusting display.

Clark wanted to raise his hands and place them over Batman’s, to hold his in place while he was being abused, but Batman interrupted his action to hold his wrists against the small of Clark’s back.

“You keep them here, got that?”

Clark nodded, and Batman’s hands were right back on his heavy breasts.

“You let your tits hang out like a whore. You were more concerned with milking them than listening to me, you cared more about getting off than doing what I told you to do.”

“M-my tits,” Clark repeated in a breathy voice. His tits, and cock, were throbbing so hard.

“You looked like a shameless woman when I came in here. Groping yourself, panting like a dog. It must really feel good, huh?” He began massaging his breasts, and Clark arched his back, letting out a soft sigh. Normally, Clark would hate being compared to a woman, but Batman doing it in that low, hungry voice, was the best feeling in the world.

“Please,” he moaned out, entire body racked with shakes, “so good—“

“Your tits are so big, I bet it was really hurting to have all that milk filling them up. You shouldn’t have been so careless to let it build up during our meeting. You should have stayed, and done what I’d said for you to do.”

“It—it would have come out—“

“I don’t give a shit.” Batman squeezed hard, almost impossibly hard, and Clark began crying out, writhing with his hands obediently behind his back, tears forming in his eyes. So much milk was flowing, his tits were beginning to feel less swollen, their weight slowly lightening up, but they were still so sensitive. His chest was so wet, so hot, and Batman was only getting rougher. He began lifting his bitch tits up like they were an actual pair of breasts, like he was trying to give Clark cleavage—no, like they were just objects, like they were arbitrary.

“This, this right here,” he muttered in his ear as he pinched and pulled on Clark’s nipples, earning another cry, “is not my problem. This is your fault, this perverted body of yours is all your fault. You should have either waited until I was finished with you, or taken care of it before you came. I don’t care if it would have stained your suit, if everyone out there would have seen your leaky tits. That’s none of my concern. Your slutty body isn’t my damn responsibility.”

“Oh, Rao, please!”

Clark’s breasts weren’t the only thing that was leaking. His dick was pounding so strongly between his legs, and Batman had to have known—how could he not?—but he chose to ignore it. In fact, aside from his throat moments before, Batman had only been touching his tits, and groping and squeezing and stroking like he was actually a woman, with actual breasts, and like Batman was a thirsty man, dying for a drink. Batman’s breath was so hot on his neck, and maybe that was what was doing him in. Batman was entirely in control, and had no problem asserting his control, like he was in Gotham, like he was as the leader of the League, and maybe it was the way he was talking down to Clark.

Either way, Clark was in pure bliss. Who knew the Man of Steel would get off to a man seizing him like this?

“Turn around,” Batman ordered, and thus he did. “Keep your hands behind your head. You move them, I stop touching you, got it?”

Clark could only nod as he shakily brought his arms up and gripped the back of his head with both hands. He could see Batman clearly now, although his vision was foggy like his mind. It was hard to tell, since the cowl had covered so much of Batman’s face, if he was as flustered as Clark was, because his voice definitely wasn’t giving anything away. Everything Batman said was solid, stern, stoic, every word carefully chosen and spoken confidently. Batman was the exact opposite of what Clark was at that moment, like he always was—Clark couldn’t even tell if he was aroused.

When he stared straight at his exposed tits, covered in milk, nipples swollen and taut, Clark then saw how hungry he was.

“You’re such a slut,” Batman murmured again, stroking the sides of his breasts. Clark let out another breathy sigh. “Who knew Superman was hiding bitch tits like these from the world? Unless you’re letting men manhandle you like this all the time when you’re not busy saving damsels in distress.”

The implication of whoring himself out made him shudder. He said nothing in response to Batman; he wanted to see what else he would say, how else he would put him down.

One of his hands trailed down to the rivers of milk staining his torso. “You’re making such a mess. You’re so filthy. How do you expect me to believe you can take care of Metropolis by yourself when you can’t even control your tits from getting milk all over the place?”

“I—I can’t,” Clark said, not sure which part he was conceding with.

“Damn right, you can’t, you dirty bitch.”

Clark was letting out another moan, but it was cut off by Batman leaning forward and taking an engorged nipple into his mouth. Clark tossed his head back, arching his spine, forcing his hands to stay in place as he looked down at Batman from under his heavy lids. No one had ever placed their mouth on his breasts before, no one had ever suckled the milk directly from his teat. He’d never done something so intimate.

He felt the milk being drawn from his nipple and going directly into Batman’s hot mouth. Batman was sucking on him, was drinking his milk, his dirty liquid. His lips were chapped, each sucking motion scraping against his delicate skin, and Clark couldn’t help but moan and whine as his milk was being drawn out. Batman’s tongue was twirling around his nipple, lapping the milk up, coaxing more and more out. Clark’s legs were shaking terribly, and his cock was aching so much.

Batman squeezed on his tit as he fed, and while his milk was motherly, he felt absolutely debauched letting a grown, older man control him and drink directly from him. Clark wanted desperately to move his hands, to peel back Batman’s cowl, to run his fingers through his hair and hold him against his breast. Clark didn’t even care about his identity, who he was—Clark simply craved the intimacy like he’d craved his voice, like he’d craved release.

“B-Batman,” he moaned, and that got Batman to start suckling harder. His teeth began to scrape against his nipple, and tears were forming in Clark’s eyes. “Your—your mouth, it feels so good—“

He hummed in agreement, and after a few more moments of drinking Clark’s milk, Batman pulled back, away from his nipple, and Clark whimpered as he saw him lick his lips, and wipe his mouth off with the back of his hand. A sudden wave of arousal washed over his senses, and his eyelids fluttered a bit.

His left breast no longer felt tense, no longer throbbed with milk, and his head felt a bit less heavy. Batman had sucked him dry.

“Was it,” Clark started, entirely too out of breath, “did it taste—good?” The question was so embarrassing to ask, and he, in turn, nervously licked his own lips. Batman was so assertive, and he seemed much more enthused by the sounds Clark was making while Batman was touching him; maybe he didn’t want him to actually speak.

There was a smirk as Batman lapped up the remaining milk that had stained his pec, and it made Clark’s heart flutter. He said nothing as his mouth found itself around his other pert nipple, and Clark was back to moaning.

He’d obeyed Batman’s orders to keep his hands behind his head, but it was becoming harder and harder not to embrace him as he drank his milk. Clark was always soft, a bit of a romantic, and even in his fevered state, he wanted to hold Batman close. He wanted to stroke his face, to run his thumb over his thin, pink lips, perhaps even kiss him, even if Batman took the lead. He wanted to press his face into his bosom, he wanted to caress Batman’s own, he wanted to leave kisses on his neck, on his collarbone, and bury himself between his legs.

It was becoming easier to think as his breasts weren’t so overwhelmingly heavy, easier to focus on the man giving him pleasure, the man taking pleasure from his body. His dick ached as he felt his other tit empty, and as he felt himself longing for more from this man.

While still greatly aroused, it was easier to breathe now that his chest wasn’t constricting and sagging. “Batman,” he softly said, with a bit more poise. His hands were still clenched into tight fists in his hair, and he could imagine his face was a wet mess, sweat and tears staining his red cheeks and lips. Batman cleaned up the rest of his chest with his hot tongue, and as he licked up his nipples, still holding onto his pecs, Clark let out another soft moan.

“Th-thank you. That felt really nice, it felt better than when I usually do it by myself, thank you. You didn’t have to.” He let out a breathy chuckle, and he looked away. He was still as hard and erect as he could have possibly been, and it was hard to focus on more direct matters at hand, but with his breasts empty for the time being of their suddenly accumulated milk, Clark assumed that they were, well, done.

Clark still wasn’t exactly certain why Batman had come in there in the first place, why Batman had helped relieve him of his embarrassing juice, but Batman was done. Maybe his aggressions, and his insults, were because Batman felt disrespected by what he’d seen was a trivial matter. Clark could think about this later—he certainly wasn’t going to ask about it—because Batman was finished, and all Clark had to worry about now was his aching dick.

Part of him felt a little sad, though. Clark certainly did feel used, and while he definitely enjoyed it, he’d never had a one-night stand, or an equivalent that thereof. Clark liked feeling objectified during their sinful act, but afterwards, it left him feeling a bit empty, especially since he’d never gotten the chance to make Batman feel as good as he did.

Of course, this wasn’t very different from their usual encounters and dynamic. Clark had always trusted Batman, had always respected him, had always extended his hand in friendship, but the only time Batman had even shown anything resembling a positive feeling towards the superhuman was when Batman was forming the League. He didn’t trust Clark, never trusted Clark, but he knew his power was one that would provide infinite use in protecting the world. Batman had never reciprocated Clark’s feelings—not that Clark was feeling anything passionate for Batman at the moment, but Clark felt a little empty knowing that this was purely one-sided.

“You’re not going to,” he let out another breathy chuckle, this one colored with a bit of nervousness as he licked his lips again. He lowered his hands and began playing with the hem of his leggings with his tired fingers. “You won’t tell anyone, right? Sorry for getting up and leaving so suddenly, it just—I can normally tell when it happens, and, I know it’s weird, but this will just be between—“

Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, Clark felt a strong hand against his throat, Batman’s hand, gripping much harder than he’d had when he was stroking it before. His hand was gripping tight, and Clark’s hands shot up to wrap them around Batman’s wrist. He couldn’t breathe, he was choking, but he felt no malice behind his strength as he was being led backwards, towards the bed. He felt fear for a split moment, before he realized Batman wasn’t done, that Batman hadn’t had his fill yet, and he let out a strangled whimper as the sickening hunger began to overwhelm his senses again. His dick was trying its hardest to escape his tights and release itself all over the place, with Batman watching and judging.

The strength guiding Clark into lying down on the bed was gentle—he had no intention of hurting him. He merely wanted to control him even more, to dominate him. As Clark rested his back against the plush mattress, his hands wrapped around Batman’s strong wrist were stroking, soft and delicate, as this had been the first time he was actually given a chance to touch the man that had just ravished him. Clark couldn’t breathe, but he wasn’t scared, or desperate—Batman would let him breathe when he wanted to.

Batman brought a knee up onto the bed by Clark’s side, and his mouth was a tight line, his grip on his throat loosening. Clark’s hands were traveling up along his muscular forearm, touching every bit of him as he could, savoring this for as long as was possible. He couldn’t say anything, and that was maybe the point, and his lightheadedness was returning, albeit for a different reason, as Batman used his other hand to pull his tights down and finally, finally, release his cock.

“You’re a wet mess down here, too,” he growled out, and Clark arched his back a bit, trying to move in any way he could to get Batman to give him more attention. “Don’t have the slightest bit of control over yourself, huh?”

His voice was still calm, was still collected, and Clark wondered what it would take to make his voice waver. He finally took his starving penis in his hand, and his rough pad was thumbing at Clark’s urethra, where his precum was leaking out in a similar way to his breasts from before. Batman was staring at it, looking focused, intense, and Clark had never felt so meager under another man’s gaze.

He could suddenly breathe again, and he took in big gulps of air. Batman’s hand was still on his throat, but rather than gripping tightly, it was rubbing almost as gently as Clark’s fingers were on his wrist. Clark was holding him delicately, a complete contrast to the way Batman had been treating them during their encounter, to the way Batman had always treated him.

Clark had never had another man touch him as sensually and thoroughly as Batman had been touching him during this—could he call it a tryst?

Batman’s hand was slowly flexing around his throbbing dick, and Clark wanted more, craved more, needed more, but he knew better than to start thrusting his hips, writhing around, begging for more with his body. Batman has set an expectation for Clark, and it was clear, but Clark didn’t know what he could do to get the man to tug at his dick, to get the last of his milk to spring forth.

“Batman,” he’d never said the man’s name so many times in one day. “Please, it hurts—“

“I bet it hurts, doesn’t it,” he said in a distracted tone as he continued to look at his dick. “What made you hard? Was it having your tits abused?”

“It was—“

Clark interrupted himself with a sudden tug from his dick, and he spread his legs so wide as he tried to gasp for air, but Batman was tightening his hand around his throat again. Nothing had ever felt better as that one stroke on his dick, engorged with blood, wrapped up in a tight, warm hand that wasn’t his own, with a hand around his throat preventing him from breathing. Batman began tugging a bit more incessantly as he continued to speak—no, he was growling.

“Or was it from when I started sucking on them? Was that it? Did you get so turned on to where it _hurts_ from having another man suck on your tits like you were a woman?”

Clark couldn’t say anything, but he was close, so close, maddeningly close. Batman continued to speak to him in that deep grumble of his voice, but between the haziness from his arousal, from the lack of oxygen, and from the immense pleasure of having his dick fisted by another man, by a strong man, by Batman, it was impossible for him to follow. His head was so filled with blood that his ears began to pound, and he closed his eyes tight, and tried to focus on just the carnal pleasure, on just the hand around his dick, bringing him close, closer.

Clark had to let go of Batman’s forearm, or else his grip would become so tight that he’d shatter the bone completely, and instead favored gripping the made blanket and sheets, subsequently ripping those. He needed Batman close, closer, as he wrapped his legs around his torso. Batman didn’t tell him no, he didn’t pull away, and soon, his codpiece was pressed right against his own exposed cock.

“Please, please, please!” Clark was begging mindlessly, he’d needed this since the meeting, he needed this for so long, he needed Batman’s mouth and hands and Batman’s dick inside him. He needed every bit of Batman, he needed everything the man would give him.

Batman was so close to him now, breathing on his lips, so wonderfully close. Clark could reach up and steal a kiss from the man that was making him feel so good, but the tight grip on his throat was keeping his head down, and Clark wanted to, at least, maintain the illusion of complete control Batman had over him, even as he was about to reach heaven.

“Come on,” Batman panted out, his fist stroking harder and faster as he was trying to bring Clark to his climax. “Come on, baby girl, cum for me.”

Clark strained to try to connect the kiss, but Batman pulled just out of his range. His legs were like a vice around the other man’s torso, keeping him as close as he possibly could as he whited out. He could feel his semen being wrung from his dick, could feel the white-hot cum shooting out like a geyser. He saw stars, his entire body shuddered, and if he hadn’t been strangled during his orgasm, he would have let out such a loud cry that the other members of the League would have thought he was being murdered.

A sweet, delicious murder that brought about the best orgasm Clark could have ever had.

It felt like it had lasted ages, like it could never end, like his ecstasy had lasted an entire universe’s lifecycle. It felt likes eons, like billions of years had passed as his body began to calm down, as Batman’s hand began to trail away from his throat, as he continued to pump his cock to get the very last bit of his semen out. Clark took in enormous gulps of air, and he brought both of his hands up to bury his palms into his eyes.

Eventually, he settled back into reality, and he withdrew his legs and settled them at Batman’s sides. The last of his ejaculate had come forth, and he was gradually gaining his vision again, his heart rate settling into something a bit more normal for the Kryptonian. Eventually, he could breathe, and eventually, his dick began to soften.

“That,” he panted out, “that was—wow, that was definitely, ah, something else.”

To be expected, he received no response. Not even a rumbling hum of agreement. Batman was completely silent, but Clark couldn’t help the goofy grin he’d had on his face. He moved his hands down and lifted his back up a bit from the bed—the completely torn and disheveled bed, from something as simple as a handjob. Clark really didn’t know his own strength sometimes.

“Really, I definitely owe you one now. This thing, it happens to me once a month, it’s usually pretty hard to deal with. But you—wow, I really don’t have any words for how great that was. You did me a huge favor, Batman, I really want to thank—B-Batman!!”

Batman had gotten on his knees, between Clark’s legs at the end of the bed, hand still on his dick. Clark had cried out when Batman’s wonderfully hot tongue had shot out and lavishly licked the base of his cock around his fist, where his semen was pooling. Batman was looking right at him.

“Left me another dirty mess to clean up, huh, Superman?”

“Batman, please, you’ve done enough! Really!” He’d cut himself off with another long moan, from another long lick. Clark’s penis felt like it was being slowly electrocuted by Batman’s mouth, and his hands shot out and finally got to be able to touch his head, and hold him there while he received further abuse.

Clark had felt absolutely debauched. He’d never felt more objectified, more mistreated than he did under Batman’s ministrations. His breasts had been overtly sexualized, his body feminized, and he had been under the total control of another man. He’d felt so dirty, but even as Batman cleaned his dick with his tongue, drinking in his semen the same way he’d had his milk, this was, by far, the best he’d ever felt.

Maybe not being human wasn’t so bad, after all.


	2. In Which Clark Digs His Own Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course, this was all Clark's fault, and, of course, Batman must think the worst of him. Of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is late, i was self-conscious about it and i'd actually had this written up about a week ago, but after having a friend look over it, i definitely feel comfortable in posting this. i wanna thank all of you so much for liking the first part as much as you did, and i totally wanna continue writing this, clark with milky tits is why i wake up in the morning. there isn't any identity porn in this chapter, but it will definitely be in the next one because it's not superbat without identity kink!
> 
> to address some concern with the last chapter, though, and while i will be elaborating more on it, the biggest reason clark is humiliated by his condition in the first place is because i love it when cute boys suffer for things out of their control. this entire fic is very self-serving, haha, but please enjoy!

Boy, Clark really did dig his own grave there, didn’t he.

A crisis piercing his ears during the afterglow, if it could even be considered as such, was a thankful reprieve and jolt back to reality before he could make his grave even deeper. Batman had cleaned him up, with his mouth, no less, while Clark lay there in a stupor, unable to believe what had just happened, or how to begin dealing with it mentally. Even worse, this was certainly something that would permanently affect his relationship with the Dark Knight, and that was a topic he continually refused to broach, even introspectively.

He didn’t even know what to say. Batman hadn’t asked any questions during, just growling commands in his ear in a voice that still rumbled throughout Clark’s body and made him quiver, even as he tried to will away any desire to reminisce on the events during that day in the privacy of his own apartment. Even afterwards, when Clark had recovered enough to be able to properly form words and sentences that weren’t punctuated with lustful moans, Batman wasn’t making any conversation. When he’d pulled away and stood, he simply wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand, and began pulling his gloves from one of the pockets on his belt, slipping them back on. Clark’s panting had still filled the air, and under Batman’s stern, cold gaze, he suddenly felt the kind of shame he’d feel as a kid whenever he was caught doing something he shouldn’t have been.

That look in Batman’s eyes was something he was more familiar with. Gone was the evident hunger he’d had for Clark while he was in need, and now was the return of his glowering surliness.

Clark sat up a bit on the bed, looking down and seeing the shreds he’d unconsciously made as he gripped and writhed under Batman’s expert touch. Again, he felt shame, but he tried to ignore it by rationalizing to himself that no one else used that room in the Watchtower, and Clark could never find a reason to sleep anywhere but his apartment, or a hotel if it was expected of him on account of his job. Batman must have taken this as a sign that they were done, as he’d turned around, picking up Clark’s previously discarded top and cape, and threw it back to him rather dismissively.

“Thanks,” Clark had thanked him in a small voice. He looked at the emblem on the chest, holding it in his hands, not really seeing it, as he was trying to adjust to the sudden, but expected, change in the mood. He looked up at Batman, eyes wanting to stray from his face, but determinably meeting the other man’s.

“And thanks for, you know.” Clark bashfully rubbed at the back of his head while he gave Batman a sheepish smile, showing his pearly teeth. “I know I kept thanking you while you were, ah, doing it, but I just wanted to thank you more sincerely while I have my head straight on my shoulders.”

He could have said more, he could have explained that his breasts weren’t finished with producing their milk, and that by the end of the day, he’d be reduced to the same pitiful, desperate state. He could have explained that this happened every month, he could have asked Batman if he could be there to help him again, to give him that hot, forceful touch, to suckle from him once more, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t. Batman didn’t need to know these things.

Batman wasn’t responding. His arms were crossed, and he looked impatient, as though, all of a sudden, he didn’t want to be there. It made Clark’s heart sink, if he were to be honest with himself.

It was in moments like these, between the two of them, that really showed the stark difference between who they were, fundamentally, as people. Batman was harsh, cold, and closed off to anything that didn’t directly benefit him. He was as his city; an unrelentingly rough municipality where expecting and receiving the kindness of others would rid you of any hope of survival. Batman was an embodiment of night, of the darkness, and nothing could, or would, change that.

Clark was always an optimist, though. Clark was always seeing the good in people, even if there was little to be found. Even as he slipped on the top piece of his suit under the scrutinizing glare of the other man, and even as he tried to offer another smile in an attempt to warm that frozen soul; even as Clark heard the cries of a crowd of citizens in need of a hero, and even as Clark flew away with extreme speed without so much as a chance to look back at his polar opposite, he wouldn’t forget the brief moment of lust in Batman’s face, the brief moment of pure humanity seeping out from a man who was so determined to shut it out from the light.

It wasn’t until Superman was involved in a skirmish and taking a direct hit to the face that the gravity of his situation had actually sunk in.

He groaned for the umpteenth time as he tried to relax on his own couch later that evening, burying the palms of his hands into his eyes as if it would rid him of any memories of what had happened. Clark must have been sated in more ways than one from the affair he’d had with Batman—gosh, even saying that in his head sounded ridiculous. _His affair with Batman_ \--to be able to think positively about any of this. To be able to focus exclusively on the skillful ways the man wrought pleasure out of him, to be able to focus on one small change in the man’s behavior and expression, and to be able to ignore absolutely any repercussions as a result of letting the leader of the League, his selfish rival, the gosh darn _Batman_ milk him in both senses of the term, was the epitome of blissful ignorance. Clark couldn’t afford that, he couldn’t afford such carelessness, he couldn’t afford such fatal mistakes.

Another groan as he dropped his hands to the sides of his thighs on the couch, staring hopelessly at his ceiling as if a solution to his problems could be willed from the heavens, themselves. Good news was that Batman wasn’t spiteful or untrustworthy enough to tell the other members of the League about Clark’s compromising coitus, and the cause thereof, so he didn’t need to worry about Shazam, or Flash, or Green Lantern making any immature remarks about his feminine condition, or, Rao forbid, even Diana or Shayera trying to offer him unintentionally (or intentionally, in Hawkgirl’s case) condescending advice and support, further drilling into his head that this was something that happened to a _woman _. Clark considered himself lucky enough, ironically, that if anyone had to encounter him while he was trying to milk himself, it was a man who knew the importance of secrets, so Clark didn’t need to worry himself to death with the prospect that everyone knew.__

__Bad news was still the fact that this had even happened._ _

__Again, optimistically, Clark tried to look at the silver lining to this impossibly dark cloud. Secluding and isolating himself during his heats, having no one but himself, didn’t really teach Clark that much about his body in this regard. It seemed silly, now, that he knew the limits of his strength, which that were very few, he knew how hot his heat gaze burned, and how cold his frost breath froze; he knew how long he could hold his breath (exactly two hours) and how long he could stay floating in the air (on Earth, it was indefinite, so long as he’d had enough radiation from the sun), but the only thing he knew about his lactation, about his breasts, was that it followed the general patterns of a woman’s menstrual cycle. His breasts would produce milk, real milk, for a few days at a time, every thirty days, and his entire body would be in a heightened state of seemingly-unending arousal._ _

__Being by himself, and not having the influence of others to judge by, and being far too embarrassed by his own physiology to discover and explore, Clark didn’t have very many opportunities to understand the limits, and effects, of this power, if he could even call it that. Being with Batman had taught him a few things about himself that he felt he wouldn’t, otherwise, learn. For example, while Clark was aware that his libido during his heat was powerful, especially so considering he was, for all intents and purposes, a literal superman, Clark learned during their fevered encounter that his arousal heavily lowered his senses and cognitive abilities. He wasn’t aware of it at the time, obviously, but Batman had entered his room entirely unbeknownst, and even as Clark tried to vindicate and seize control of the happenstance, Batman had easily bested him, and dominated him, no contest._ _

__Clark even recollected, however hazily, feeling like he was in a trance the entire time. When he was a teen, and his breasts first started to produce liquid, he remembered having to take a day or two off from school while he gathered his senses, but he’d always attributed that to boyhood puberty. When he would satisfy his urges as an adult and in heat, he did realize, afterwards, that he was very, very intent on achieving his climax, with that being the single most important thing on his mind once his member began to throb and ache, but, again, Clark would justify that as being no different than passion in a normal human man, knowing no else. Even trying to remember everything that happened, or remember his other fits of ecstasy, was like trying to remember a dream you forgot the moment you woke up._ _

__It scared Clark to think he could be so easily overpowered, and not be of the right senses to be able to resist. It scared him, but it aroused him all the same._ _

__That was another thing Clark had learned about himself; during their act, all he was able to focus on were the sensations and cries that Batman was wringing from him, and afterwards, until he was face to face with an actual threat disturbing the peace, forcefully awakening him from his dreamlike state that seemed to persist, all he could think were wholesome, endearing thoughts about the dark man. If it wasn’t his wonderful hands stroking and squeezing his sensitive tits, it was his wonderful mouth, suckling and drinking his purest essence, his dirty milk. If it wasn’t his gruff voice, pouring orders out like honey and coating Clark’s heated skin with their sweetness, it was his eyes, his eyes the color of his frozen heart, looking at Clark, like he was a feast prepared just for him._ _

__His dick began to throb as he remembered how he felt during their exchange, and Clark, wanting to rid himself of the curse Batman had placed on him, balled his hands into fists as he tried to ignore his own need. At least his breasts seemed satisfied, for now, as the only inconvenience they’d maintained was their increased sensitivity._ _

__While their encounter had been a deeply regrettable one, Clark’s optimism still shone through as he replayed the foggy events over in over in his mind. He brought a hand up to play with his hair, ruminating on the difference between Batman’s mannerisms in the bedroom, it seemed, versus his mannerisms otherwise. Batman always felt distant, and withdrawn, and Clark, being an empathetic person whose entire living was built around getting to know people, always had a hard time putting a number on him. He knew Batman was human, he had no doubts about it, but Batman never seemed to want to address it, himself. But the Batman playing with his breasts, the Batman stroking his cock—_ _

__It was so disgracefully perverted, but Clark couldn’t forget those eyes. They held an obvious warmth, one that Batman couldn’t hide. Clark had felt horrible, being dismissed like he was just one cheap thrill, but the more he thought about it, which he really needed to stop doing, the more he wondered if what Batman had displayed was disinterest, or nervousness. Could Batman even feel such a thing?_ _

__“Give me a break,” Clark muttered, dropping his hand back to his side. If he didn’t have heat vision, he would have burned holes into his ceiling from how intently he’d been staring at it while trying to sort his feelings._ _

__Clark had no idea why he couldn’t stop thinking about Batman, and boy, did he have it bad. Maybe a good night’s rest, a much-needed reset, would be enough to clear his mind, but Clark was far too wired to be able to lay his head down and let sleep consume him. His heat usually brought about erotic dreams to permeate his mind and continue his torment it subjected him to, so even if he did manage to pass out, at this rate, all he would be able to dream about would be Batman. Clark, living in a constant state of denial, tried to reason with himself further that, perhaps, he was only so fixated on the man because this was the only sexual encounter he’d ever had. He had been too humiliated by himself, and too shy and modest otherwise, to let himself get into a continuous sexual relationship with someone else._ _

__But breastfeeding and receiving a handjob from a man he knew next to nothing about was apparently free game for Clark Kent. A man whom, despite knowing next to nothing about, he had a very delicate work relationship with that he needed to preserve, if not strengthen._ _

__“Oh, this is so bad,” he cried out in anguish._ _

__Sometime around midnight, Clark had closed his eyes, but it wasn’t until he’d heard gunshots echoing throughout his city, easily audible even without super hearing, that he’d even realized he’d began to fall asleep. Shaking himself awake and shirking off his civilian clothes, Superman launched himself into his city once more, entering the fray of combat once he’d pinpointed where the machine guns had been firing from, anticipating on neutralizing the threat with ease._ _

__As soon as he’d entered the abandoned warehouse and took out the pawns, he was filled with a sudden, associated dread as he’d realized who was disturbing the peace—frankly, it wasn’t so much as _who_ was committing crime, but rather whose _problem_ it was._ _

__“Again? Are you serious?!,” Clark had heard the cry from a familiar foe, one Clark, really, hadn’t expected to deal with again._ _

__“I could be asking the same thing.” Superman scratched his head as he tried to figure out why Black Mask could have possibly been in Metropolis again, which proved to be a very unfortunate circumstance. Clark focused exclusively on neutralizing any threat he could posed, which barely involved lifting a finger, as Black Mask had given himself up rather easily to Superman’s might. Opting not to fight was the smartest decision Clark had seen this guy make._ _

__The goons that worked for Black Mask didn’t exactly require ambulances, so Mask, himself, only needed careful escorting back to his own turf. The thing was, Clark had felt tense when he’d seen that Mask was trying to extend his reach to Metropolis again simply because of his association with Gotham, his association with the man who Clark had only been able to forget about thus far by shutting his mind off and performing heroics, which was something he could lose himself in just as easily. Black Mask being in Metropolis meant that Superman had to return him to Gotham._ _

__Gotham was the last place he’d wanted to be, but he had a duty to perform, and, hopefully, Clark wouldn’t encounter the puppet master that had cursed his dick. He could easily just take Black Mask to the headquarters for the police department and let them handle the villain without needing to involve the vigilante._ _

__On the other side of the coin, though, Clark pondered as he flew to the dark city with his culprit, maybe seeing Batman would do him some good. Unless Batman were to cut him off entirely, as he was wont to do, Clark could, maybe, have a conversation with him about what had happened earlier that day, and reach a consensus to forget about it. Worst case scenario, should they have a discussion, Batman could just use this as leverage to get something out of Superman, which was more likely to be an agreement to not overstep any boundaries, which Clark would be more than happy to consign to, especially since this current trip to Gotham was enough to form a pit of dread in his stomach. Seeing Batman in his usual form would also probably help abate the desire Clark had to see him—if he saw Batman being curt, uncouth, with absolutely zero interest in having Superman in his presence, maybe it would finally get those ill-begotten images out of his mind, no matter how lovely they were._ _

__“You can just,” Mask had spoken up as Superman lowered them to the sidewalk in front of the police station, a disheartened pause in his voice, “drop me off here, I guess.”_ _

__“You’ll be good and turn yourself in? Don’t need me in there with you?” Clark smiled at his own sense of humor, letting go of the grip he’d had on the villain’s arm upon landing. The guards in front of the building readied themselves before hesitantly approaching._ _

__“Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too.” Mask straightened himself, and with a huff, straightened and fixed his blazer. He didn’t say anything else as he’d allowed the guards to walk him into the building, but Clark hoped this meant the end of Mask’s escapades in Metropolis._ _

__Clark gave a sympathetic, albeit triumphant, smile to Mask as he was carted away, and considered this to be a mission completed, and one that didn’t involve Batman, at that. As he began to float up into the sky and head back to his apartment to get into bed proper, his mind found itself a chance to address the question he’d had since he’d first encountered the Gothamite crime lord in his city, a question that became even stronger and more obvious as he’d freely entered the shadowed city sans any interruptions. Clark could have tried to ignore it all he wanted, but the question as to why Mask was so easily handed off to the local city police, rather than being apprehended by the crime-fighter, was something that was digging into Clark’s skin, like an itch that couldn’t be satisfied, like the insatiable itch said crime-fighter had caused. Why had this been so easy, when Batman had been making everything else in his life so hard?_ _

__Clark was flying at a relatively leisurely speed towards Metropolis. He could be there in an instant, if he truly wanted, but he knew that unless he resolved these thoughts and put them to rest now, he wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink—he still hadn’t known how he’d fallen asleep earlier. He must have mentally exhausted himself with his ideations and apprehensions circling around and around in his head, and a nice flight in the nighttime sky should give him the pleasant thinking space that he needed as he’d tried to clear his head._ _

__Before he was able to come up with suppositions and excuses, however, he noticed a skulking figure on top of one of the elevated rooftops in the city, as Clark was subconsciously scanning the city—it may have just been a hero’s habit, it may have been Clark unable to avoid meddling Batman had advised so strongly against, or it may have been something more subconscious. For a split second, Clark had begun to enter Hero Mode, before realizing that the shadowy figure was one that bore a great resemblance to the curse-bearer afflicting his mind._ _

__Clark should have known he wouldn’t have been able to insert himself in Gotham’s affairs, no matter how disconnected he had been, without running into the city’s stalwart protector._ _

__Of course, nothing in the rule book said that he had to go down and converse with the vigilante, but this could prove to be beneficial—an attitude Clark always seemed to have whenever he’d had run-ins with this accursed man. As he’d entertained to counter his anxiety on the flight over, maybe they could talk about what had happened, if even what little they could communicate would be enough to put Clark’s thoughts at ease. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about this man since—well, now that he’d thought about it, Batman had always been a thorn in his side, but one he’d always hoped to overcome, perpetually seeking the budding rose hidden away. Batman hadn’t always consumed his thoughts to such an extent, and now was probably the best chance Clark would get. He didn’t want their future together to be awkward and uncomfortable._ _

__He lowered himself to the building, restless to get this over with despite how nervous it was making him. When his feet touched the roof of the building, and Batman turned away from the darkness to face him, he felt like he could have thrown up. Clark realized, then, that he must have interrupted the Bat in his nightly patrol, and he’d only accosted him with the worst intentions, with the dirtiest subtext. His face heated up, as he’d met with those intense eyes once again, and he’d wondered if he had been, somehow, digging his grave even deeper._ _

__“Hey, there,” Superman tried to sound as sweet as polite as always. He cleared his throat as he’d tried to steel himself for what he’d hyped up to be the, perhaps, most embarrassing conversation he’d ever had. And Ma once found his dirty magazines he’d borrowed from a kid at school under his bed._ _

__Batman had been standing close to the edge of the building when Clark had spotted him, and as Superman found his footing, Batman took a few steps away to properly face his intruder. What he’d been watching on the streets below must not have been particularly threatening, since Batman was, seemingly, giving Clark his full attention. “What do you want, Superman?”_ _

__Ah, yes, there was that surliness Clark had missed. Clark’s smile wavered for a bit, but he could take this—he’d always been able to take Batman’s blunt methods. Nothing had changed, Clark tried to reassure himself. All that stood on the table was the fact that Clark had let Batman breastfeed from him, nothing more, nothing less._ _

__Clark had to suppress a shudder down his spine, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the still-vivid memories, or if Batman’s short tone had ignited a similar spark in him. “Well, the drug boss with the—with the mask, right? The one that, I guess, is attached to his face. Black Mask? Well, he was in Metropolis again, and—“_ _

__“—and you stopped him from whatever it was he was trying to do and brought him back here, where he belongs.” Batman tapped a finger to his ear, and Clark took that to mean that he’d had some sort of access to the local police radio broadcasts. That was very resourceful, Clark had found himself impressed._ _

__“Y-yeah!,” his sure smile was back. Gee, Batman didn’t sound so angry with him this time, much to Clark’s favor. “He seemed pretty compliant with letting me bring him back to Gotham. I didn’t have to wrestle with him, or anything like that, he gave up pretty much as soon as he knew I’d caught onto him.” He’d bashfully brought a hand up to rub at the back of his head, trying not to sound too full of himself._ _

__“Anyway,” he continued, tentatively taking a step closer to Batman, who simply stood there—his arms weren’t crossed, his hips weren’t cocked, he wasn’t tapping an impatient foot. He simply stood there. “Ah, so, usually—,” he bit his lip, trying to find words to convey his feelings, which, for a reporter, was unsurprisingly difficult to manage, given how torn up Clark was over this man. “S-so, you know how—“_ _

__“What do I know, Superman?” A hint of annoyance tinted Batman’s growl, but it wasn’t as strong of a stain as it normally was whenever Clark opened his mouth around him, and Batman didn’t want to hear it. Clark wondered if his mind was still playing tricks on him. “Come on, out with it.”_ _

__“R-right!” He stood up straight again, and took in a deep breath. He shut his eyes tight, mustering every amount of courage a hero could possibly have in their entire being to be able to force out the terribly gauche questions Clark wanted to ask, but it felt nearly impossible. Eventually, he’d just had to shut his brain off, or else he’d probably die of the humility, and he let the words flow out like a dam had broken._ _

__“So, I just wanted to say that I was sorry for—for earlier today, or, I guess it was yesterday, by now.” His heart was hammering like it’d escape his chest at any moment; he felt like a school boy confessing to the girl he likes, which was the exact opposite of how Clark wanted to feel right now. “I know it was rude of me leave so suddenly, but I really couldn’t help it, but you were there for me, and that’s all that matters, so I wanted to thank you.”_ _

__He cracked an eye open, his brow meekly furrowed, and his hands playing with the edge of his cape. Batman had crossed his arms, and he wasn’t looking at him. Clark could faintly hear a mutter from him, something about having already been thanked._ _

__But he wasn’t terse—Clark saw that in their afterglow, and it wasn’t irritation—_ _

__“And,” he willed himself to continue, focusing once more, “I know it must have been—it must have been pretty weird for you. I certainly wasn’t expecting it, and I can’t possibly begin to imagine how it made you feel, but—,“ he had to pause, had to swallow. “It’s been happening pretty much since I hit puberty, so it’s something I can deal with on my own. I don’t mean to disrespect you, but I’m a lot more competent than I seem. I just don’t want our—our relationship with each other to get weird.” Clark felt like he was ready to pass out when he’d said that word._ _

__“I’ll try not to let it interrupt League business, it just came up so suddenly, this time. I could keep making excuses, but I guess I should let you know that this is gonna—it’s gonna keep happening. So you don’t need to worry about it.”_ _

__His voice trailed off at the end, and he licked his lips once he’d finished his soliloquy, letting his words hang in the air. Batman’s face was looking particularly pale, and if Clark hadn’t regretted setting his foot down on the building with him before, he definitely was now. His grave was breaking through the crust of the planet at this point._ _

__“And I guess I just don’t want you to be mad at me—“_ _

__“How long?”_ _

__“I-I’m sorry?” Clark had been caught off guard by the abrupt utterance. Batman took one quick glance at Clark, then went right back to staring at nothing, away from the other man._ _

__“I said,” Batman—cleared his throat? “How long? You said since puberty, when does it happen? How long does it happen?”_ _

__Clark’s face was on fire, and he’d felt completely naked under the spotlight as Batman’s gaze had found itself back on Clark and his features. His jaw had dropped, lips quivering, fingers twiddling with one another. Somehow, the possibility of Batman wanting to know the manner of what he’d drank earlier never crossed Clark’s mind._ _

__His breasts throbbed at the prospect. Just keep digging that grave—_ _

__He shook his head, and tried to answer with a smooth voice. “Once a month. Every month, roughly every thirty days. It lasts for about—th-three, three or four days at a time, off and on. It was bad when I was younger, but I sort of grew into it.”_ _

__Clark wanted to bury his face in his hands._ _

__“Why does it happen?”_ _

__This was definitely not the conversation Clark had been hoping to have. He drew in a sigh, and tried to relax his posture. These were questions he’d have to answer to someone else at some point in his life, he just really wished it hadn’t been someone as masculine, or intimidating, as Batman. “I don’t know. Th-that’s my own choice, I don’t think I want to know. I have—I have the means of figuring it out, but it embarrasses me too much to think about it. Every other day of the month, when it isn’t happening, it’s like I’m able to forget. I want—“_ _

__Clark covered his mouth with his hand, a demure gesture, and he found himself looking away from the other man, just as Batman had done before._ _

__“I want to believe—that I’m a man. I want to be a male Kryptonian. I have m—male organs, just, the only thing feminine being—being that.”_ _

__Clark was sure his face was the same color as his cape, and his heart was still hammering in his chest. Blood was filling his head, and his ears, and that haziness was ebbing its way into his consciousness. What Clark wasn’t sure was if that was simply a result of absolute mortification, or if drawing attention to his anatomy, talking about his anatomy, laying his anatomy bare for another person in such a technical display, was beginning to trigger his heat._ _

__He heard Batman scoff, and Clark winced. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure I recall you liking the things I was saying to you. You wanna tell me what that was all about?”_ _

__Batman was right, and they were words that had been playing in his head all day. His tits, his _bitch tits_ , tingled every time he remembered the way the growls addressed them. His loins began to awaken at the direct reference to his own perversion, and his hand completely covered his mouth. At this rate, he was going to start lactating for this man again. Dig, dig, dig._ _

__Batman had crossed the distance between them in few short strides, and Clark had to catch his breath as Batman forcefully gripped his jaw, directing Clark into looking at him. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it was stern, and it brought forth the shiver Clark had previously tried to suppress. “I distinctly remember you voicing how much you liked what I was doing to you without a single care. You certainly sounded like a woman, moaning so damn much just because your pitiful tits were getting milked—milked by another _man_. Your tits were heaving so much, you ought to have worn a bra, but you just let them hang out for someone you know _nothing_ about, and you’re trying to tell me you _don’t_ want to be a woman.”_ _

__One of the shameless whines Batman mentioned found its way out of Clark’s lips, everything Batman had said reverberating through his very core. The muddiness, the arousal—his heat had returned, almost like a switch was flipped. Clark couldn’t help but reach his hands up to stroke at his forearm, a similar action to when he’d been suffocated by the same man before._ _

__“I,” Clark started, trying to respond, but he was torn between vying for pity, and vying for approval. He licked his lips, and his hands hesitantly reached out to stroke at Batman’s chest, pawing at him through the Kevlar, the most Clark had ever been able to touch the man before. Surprisingly, this awarded him with a caress from Batman’s thumb along his jaw. “It mixes me up—when it happens—I get all muggy, and muddled, it gets hard to breathe, and it’s all I can focus on—“_ _

__“So you’re saying you get turned on the minute your tits start lactating,” Batman growled again, and Clark’s eyes fluttered._ _

___You_ turn me on, he wanted to so desperately say._ _

__“I can’t help it,” was all he could muster, a simple whisper. “I can’t help how good it feels.”_ _

__That seemed to spark something in the other man; Clark felt himself being pulled away as he led the two of them back into the darkness blanketing the top of the building, where no one could see them. Where no one could see what Batman was going to do to Superman. Batman had turned them around, and he’d had Clark pinned to a wall—his hand was languidly stroking his neck, and Clark exposed his throat, submissively. It had felt so wonderful before when he couldn’t breathe, when he’d surrendered himself to the other man, when he’d been made to feel completely helpless. He couldn’t forget about the fingers tightening, his head spinning, the animalistic force Batman had shown him._ _

__“I’ll make you feel good,” he growled, and both of his hands began running down his neck, slowly tracing lines of musculature, remembering their place they had so naturally found there. They ran across his collarbone, down his clothed pecs, where they squeezed, briefly, and then down his abs, his sides, as they untucked the top of his suit and pulled it up over his breasts, exposing them to the biting chill of the night air._ _

__“I know you will,” and Clark surrendered. He obediently held his hands near his head, and he subtly thrust his chest out, willing Batman to have his way with him again. He no longer had the focus, nor the desire, to brush this under the rug and never speak of it again. He wanted Batman. He would let himself have him._ _

__A drop of milk was budding from his nipple, and while Clark’s chest was certainly feeling taut and tender, his breasts hadn’t swelled up with the same volume of milk they’d had when he’d been waylaid by Batman their previous encounter. He began to feel self-conscious, although for new reasons; if Batman had intended to feed from him once more, had intended to pour all of Clark’s milk out, would he be disappointed if it was only a few ounces? He tried not to think, tried not to think of any potential dismissal, tried not to think of being rejected._ _

__“They don’t have very much,” he hastily explained when he saw Batman ogling his breasts that he’d cradled in his hands, a wolfish aura, with wolfish intentions. Batman was simply rubbing them, thumbing the nipples a bit, which made Clark’s breath hitch, but he hadn’t dived down quite yet to devour him. Batman seemed entirely fixated on him, and it heated Clark’s skin to no end._ _

__“Why’s that,” Batman said, not necessarily asking, as he licked a stripe up one of Clark’s breasts. He captured his leaking nipple in his mouth, nibbling and sucking, urging the stream to pour forth. Clark’s sighs were punctuated with moans as he felt Batman’s rough teeth scraping against his delicate flesh, but his hands stayed where they were—even if he was the strongest man on earth, the illusion of defenselessness really helped sell it for the two of them._ _

__“Y-you drank so much before,” he felt so dirty speaking like this, but each word either of them uttered caused his cock to throb more and more. His brain was on auto-pilot. “It takes a little bit for them to fill up again, you were so rough with them—“_ _

__That made Batman bite down on his nipple, and Clark reflexively covered his mouth again to suppress his moans. They were somewhat secluded, but Clark had felt safer in his room in the Watchtower, where they were indoors in a private space, not out in the city in the early, early morning. His moans were still so embarrassing, and he didn’t want Batman to judge him._ _

__Batman, of course, let go of his other breast to slam Clark’s wrist against the wall by his head. Clark looked down at the man suckling from him, and Batman was glaring, dark, impossibly dark, commanding him with just his look alone._ _

__He pulled away moments later, licking his lips, and, as Clark had worried, he was dissatisfied with how little milk was coming out. Clark wanted to utter an apology, but, with his hand still gripping tight, crushingly tight, tight enough to bruise around his wrist, Batman pulled away and began fumbling with his pockets again._ _

__“Hold on,” he grumbled. It was hard to be patient; Clark’s arousal was flooding his senses, and his blood was pulsing violently throughout his body, rushing to the organ between his legs. He was aching for that release again, and only Batman could give it to him._ _

__From his pocket, Batman pulled out a small device, and upon recognizing it, Clark let out his most wanton moan yet. His head began throbbing so hard, it was becoming difficult to see, and his cock was begging for escape from its confinement. He felt hot, so terribly hot, when he saw that Batman had brought along a breast pump._ _

__He should have been humiliated, he should have felt riddled with shame, to the point of wanting to die, but he wasn’t. If anything, he was even more desperate for release, practically on the verge of begging to have the inhuman device pulling his milk from him in Batman’s stead. In his mind, he was dreaming, playing with the idea of Batman using the pump because Clark was an inconvenience—Batman using it because he couldn’t be bothered to do it, himself—using it because Clark didn’t deserve Batman, wasn’t worthy of his hot mouth, his plush lips—_ _

__“This should be fine,” he’d said, and Clark was thrusting his chest out even more, needing the gentle suction on his breast more than he needed to breathe. What if Batman choked him while the device gently pumped out Clark’s milk, what if he was strangled by this man while his milk was slowly coaxed out by the machine, like Clark was an animal—_ _

__Clark had no idea where these fantasies were coming from, and he didn’t care. He whined as he could feel precum leaking from his dick, he wanted Batman to use him and mistreat him more than he’d ever wanted anything before._ _

__As if he’d read his mind, Batman took his hand from the vice grip he’d had around Clark’s wrist and brought it back to his throat, pinning his head in place. Clark could barely hear the words of gratitude coming out of his mouth, from how hard the blood was pounding in his ears, and from how focused he was on getting that pump around his tit._ _

__“Look at you,” Batman growled. “Look how fast this went, it hasn’t even been five minutes, but the second I put my hands on you and start talking about your tits—the very _second_ I give them any attention—you turn into a bitch in heat. Now look, you need this, don’t you? You just need something sucking on you like a baby. You talk about wanting to be a man, but your body was clearly made to be _used_ by one.”_ _

__Clark had to brace himself against the wall; his legs went weak, shaking. He could barely stand._ _

__Batman finally placed the cup of the pump against the nipple he’d tried suckling on before, and Clark cried out. It felt so good; the suction was gentle, rhythmic, like it was massaging his nipple in a heavenly way. There wasn’t the scraping of teeth, or the flicking of Batman’s tongue, but it had been coating in something to make it feel wet, to make it feel warm, like he’d actually had a mouth drinking from him. The pump was electric, so there was a low hum, causing an undercurrent of vibration, which stimulated Clark’s pec even more. After just a few moments, his milk was flowing._ _

__Batman’s thumb was stroking his throat again, in an almost affectionate way, but never once letting go of his control. He’d slowly tighten his hand, slowly restricting Clark’s breathing, slowly suppressing his voice, and the pump sucked and sucked. This went on for a few minutes, but it felt like hours—hours that Clark was held like this, hours that Clark’s sensitive teat was blessed with the wonderful feeling of the pump drinking up his milk. He was in pure bliss._ _

__“You don’t deserve this,” Batman said. The pump had finished milking Clark’s first breast, able to collect such a little amount into the container, and he practically mewled when the pump was pulled away, still sucking, only to be placed on his second one, and draw the milk from there. For the first time in his life, he cursed his breasts for not being able to produce more milk, more milk so that he could continue feeling like this, feeling like his breasts were just for Batman, just for his use._ _

__“I—don’t,” Clark agreed, forcing out from the constriction on his vocal chords. “You’re being so—so good to me, Batman, I don’t know why, but it’s so good—“_ _

__“How good does it feel.” He wasn’t asking, because he could see Clark’s pleasure so clearly, all the nuances of his ecstasy laid completely bare. He could see it, but he wanted to hear it, he wanted to hear how good he was making Clark feel._ _

__“S-so good,” he gasped, trying not to lose himself to the sensation of his hot milk pouring out. “I’ve never—I’ve never felt so good, Batman, no one’s ever--,” he had to swallow, and his dick throbbed even more as he continued, “—no one’s ever touched my—my b-breasts before—“_ _

__“Your _tits_ ,” Batman interjected, corrected, and he threateningly tightened his grip even more._ _

__“M-my tits! You’re the only one—the only man to hold them, to—to suck from them, it feels so good when you—oh god, so good—“ Clark had tossed his head back as much as he could as another moan came out, the vibration from the pump suckling on him making him lose his mind. “The pump is so good, Batman, you’re so good—“_ _

__“Tell me why you don’t deserve to feel so good.” Batman’s thumb on the pump brushed against something on the side of the nozzle, and suddenly, Clark felt like his nipple had been electrified; the humming grew a bit louder, but the suction was rougher, more like Batman’s mouth, and the vibrations grew much stronger. It felt like a small vibrator, for a woman’s clit, had been placed on his tender bud._ _

__“Oh, Rao, _please_!!” Clark felt his orgasm so close, without even needing Batman’s hands, just from the vacuum of the breast pump and from what Batman’s voice had been doing to him, the things he’d been saying and making Clark say. His entire body began to writhe with absolute need, and he felt like he was about to explode._ _

__“Tell me, or I’ll stop,” he’d threatened, and it was so hard for Clark to form anything coherent at this point._ _

__“B-because I’m—I’m Superman! I’m supposed to be—ah, god, it’s too good, I’m a hero, I’m supposed to p-protect the world, but I’m letting another man—another man m-milk me, and it makes me lose my mind, it’s so good! I’m l-letting Batman—I’m letting him—“_ _

__More tears flowed from Clark’s eyes, and he was almost at his limit, having reached it in record time. Batman moved close, almost too close, almost close enough for their lips to meet, and he let his breath ghost over Clark’s mouth._ _

__“What are you letting me do?” And for that small moment, Batman sounded completely different, but Clark was too far gone to notice._ _

__“I’m letting you d-do whatever you want with me, I’m letting you t-treat me l-like a woman, I’m letting you d-drink my milk—I’m letting you make me feel good, I feel so good, Batman, I love it--I need to cum—“_ _

__Batman pulled his hand from his throat, and Clark immediately missed it, although he could breathe and was no longer on the verge of blacking out; Batman continued to cradle the pump against Clark’s breast, still intent on milking him, as his other hand practically lifted Clark’s hips as he pressed himself between his legs. Clark couldn’t feel the other man’s erection, but he could feel the hardness of his codpiece as Batman rutted against him, grinding himself against Clark’s engorged member, pounding Clark into the wall. Clark’s hands shot up to wrap his arms around the back of Batman’s neck, moaning for him, just for him, as the other man continued to thrust against him, helping Clark chase his climax with fevered, primal hedonism._ _

__He dropped his head and lowered his gaze to watch Batman slide against him over and over again, almost as though Batman were trying to reach his own orgasm—almost as if he was using Clark’s body to give himself the same kind of rapture he’d given him before, that he was currently helping Clark transcend to—almost as if they were mating—_ _

__The friction against his own dick had felt amazing; it had felt even better than the last time, when Batman had only stroked him off with his hand. Batman’s body was so large, his hips directly in between Clark’s legs, so his cock had nowhere to escape, had no choice but to be assaulted like this, to be ground and rutted against. Clark did his best to spread his legs wider, to allow Batman as much access as he could. As he instinctively kept his legs spread, he wanted to raise his own hips to entice Batman’s into drifting lower in his thrusts, to rub against something else between his legs—_ _

__“Your—dick--,” Clark breathed out, in between strained pants and moans. He wanted it out; he wanted both their dicks to frot against each other, he wanted to feel Batman’s thick, throbbing member using Clark’s to pleasure itself, to use Clark’s as a means to an end._ _

__“Please,” he managed out, “please, give me—more—“_ _

__“Shut up,” Batman gruffly murmured into his ear. His breath felt impossibly hot._ _

__“Please, Batman, please!” He was so horribly desperate, he needed his cock out, both of their cocks out, and he was begging to the point of tears._ _

__Batman didn’t say anything for a moment, simply grunting under his breath in Clark’s ears as he continued rutting like a dog, listening to Clark’s whines. “Tell me what you need,” he’d said after his silence, and his hand gripped Clark’s hip even harder, enough to bruise, and Clark decidedly loved how Batman continued to hold him and touch him this forcefully._ _

__“I—need—“ Could he say it? Could he say such a despicable, dirty thing, even in the throes of passion where he’d lost his mind?_ _

__“Tell me,” Batman ordered again, his lips directly against Clark’s ear._ _

__“I—I n-need you in me!!” His hole had begun craving Batman’s dick the moment it brought itself close to it, a hunger Clark had never known. “I n-need you inside, so bad, Batman, I need more--!”_ _

__If Batman said anything, Clark couldn’t hear him. A sudden vision in his mind’s eye of Batman giving him what he wanted, of Batman removing his codpiece, of Clark seeing his massive, heavy member thrusting itself inside of him, finally claiming Clark as Batman’s own, as his _woman_ , enveloped all of his senses, and he couldn’t hold on any longer._ _

__Batman had always worn his thick armor, but Clark knew he must have been able to feel Superman’s strength as he clung to him even tighter, his entire body seizing, stars shooting behind his eyes as his testicles flexed and tightened, releasing his semen against the inside of his tights, coating them in his seed in such a dirty, careless way. Clark would hate the feeling later, but as his vision blanked out, and as he pressed himself so close to Batman, clinging to him for dear life, all he could focus on was Batman’s rutting, on Batman’s breath in his ear, on the pressure from Batman’s hand—Batman’s scent, his presence, the feel of his suit. Batman, Batman, Batman._ _

__Batman’s own breath hitching as his rutting got faster, stopped, and resumed a slow pace._ _

__Batman orgasming because of Clark._ _

__Clark must have stopped breathing, because as his orgasm began to roll away, as his brain began to recover from the intensity of his climax, his chest was heaving. The pump was still against his breast, still sucking, but no more milk was coming out. His vision returned, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at the other man—looking at him now, after what Batman had done to him, after the things they’d said, after they’d both reached their highs, would be too much. It would be too intimate, and Batman didn’t do intimacy._ _

__Clark still wanted to kiss him. He could have, his arms were still around his shoulders, even as Batman slowly lowered his hips and separated their loins. Batman was still close, Batman was still holding his side, Batman wasn’t pulling away. Neither of them were._ _

__Batman was looking down between them, presumably at the stain between Clark’s legs; Clark was looking down, as well, but at Batman’s broad chest. Batman’s breathing seemed to have been under control, but was still a bit exaggerated, while Clark struggled to catch his own._ _

__Batman felt so different, in that moment, and it felt the same as it had the first time Clark had orgasmed because of him. There was a different silence about him, and the hand still on his hip—not gripping, not petting—spoke volumes. It wasn’t possessive, it wasn’t controlling, it was simply _there_ , with neither of them saying anything, neither of them addressing this moment between them._ _

__Their first moment of intimacy._ _

__It lasted for a few solid, straight, long minutes, and Clark didn’t want it to end. Clark had a soft heart, and he’d always known that after fits of passion, he was certainly the kind of man to want to lay there in each other’s arms; they hadn’t had sex, and Clark didn’t think they ever would, but even after such extreme levels of pleasure that Batman was able to subject him to, Clark was his happiest as he basked in his sated afterglow._ _

__But, of course, he hadn’t the courage to say as much when his heat wasn’t clouding his mind, when Batman’s commands weren’t heightening his lust, and Clark could give himself away with fiery abandon._ _

__Eventually, Batman pulled the pump away from Clark’s breast, and Clark let himself slide down on his knees, slumping against the wall he’d been held up against, struggling to catch his breath. That had felt incredible, and, like the last time, Clark had never felt something so intense, something so innately pleasurable, something that had made him feel so good, from his nerves to his heart. In the back of his conscious mind, he’d wondered how he hadn’t managed to completely destroy his surroundings, and Batman, while he was at it, when he’d been completely robbed of all cognizance—but questioning that, and questioning how, and why, he was losing so much control over his entire being, would have to wait when he was in the mood to chastise himself again._ _

__Clark had finally caught up with himself, and he brought a sweaty hand to rub at his eyes and face, letting out a breathy laugh. “That was—incredible. I have no words for that, that was really—really good.”_ _

__“Do you always have to do the bedside manner thing?” He was surprised Batman had even responded—he hadn’t last time, and, now that he’d mentioned it, Clark felt a little bashful at the comment, noting that he was right._ _

__Clark let out a little chuckle, eyes closed as he was basking in the warm, sated feeling his orgasm had brought. “I’m just saying! It’s probably your thing to be all silent and brooding, but I like to be polite, and I definitely like to give credit where credit is due. I like to let my partners know they did a good job, and that they’re much appreciated, even if I’ve never—“_ _

__“We’re not partners.”_ _

__Clark’s heart sank. Batman’s tone had reverted to how it was before, how it always was—dismissive, reserved, and the way Batman had said that, with total disregard, felt like a small knife had been shoved and twisted into Clark’s chest. He cooled off almost right away, and he could feel the dull pangs of awareness at what their tryst had been, what that had been up until this point—just trysts, nothing more. There was nothing between them; Batman wasn’t changing, Batman wasn’t opening himself up, and he wasn’t going to. While Clark was impressed and pleased with Batman’s apparent attraction to him, his sexual fantasies were his reality._ _

__Batman was purely using Clark’s body as a means to an end. It hadn’t been quite as clear the last time, but this time, it was all too evident._ _

__And that was fine. It saddened Clark, and disheartened him, but it was fine. It had to be fine, Clark had already changed their relationship enough with these fits of passion, and he couldn’t afford to mess it up even more by becoming emotionally attached to a man who had sealed himself off by layers and layers of thick ice and steel. Clark attributing his emotions to simply being those of a man who’d never known the pleasures of the flesh that Batman had introduced him to, so he’d dismissed these feelings as being boyish and immature._ _

__It still hurt, though._ _

__He had to brush it off. Where his smile had faltered, it returned, however forced. “I know that, I know we were never partners. You had to bite the bullet just to invite me into the League, and I know that was a tough pill for you to swallow,” he’d said, teasingly._ _

__Batman simply hummed, and Clark continued._ _

__He had to choose his words carefully—he didn’t want to admit too much to Batman, and he didn’t want to say anything that would make this more awkward than it had any right to be. He decided to try to lighten the air with another joke._ _

__“Just like how,” he’d started, opening his eyes to look up at Batman, “I bet that drinking my—my—“_ _

__Batman had removed the nozzle and pump from the device he’d used on Clark’s breasts earlier, and had the container the milk had been pumped into pressed up against his lips as he began drinking it up, his eyes locked with Clark’s. Clark had been terribly aroused the first time Batman had drank his milk, but before, it had been directly from his breast—he’d lapped up the liquid as it poured from his nipples, and he’d suckled in earnest to get the sweet liquid out from its source. Seeing him drink it secondhand, seeing him drink it from an inorganic device used specifically to spill it from Clark’s breasts in the first place, was enough to make his heart start pounding again._ _

__Clark completely forgot what he’d been saying. All he could do was stare, and watch. He watched Batman’s throat undulate as he swallowed, he watched as Batman pulled his mouth away from the lip of the bottle, and lick away any remainder of white that had dripped out; he bared witness to his sharp, blue eyes as his vision stared straight into Clark’s soul. Batman had a disproportionate amount of power over him. Clark was perpetually laid bare before this man, and he was powerless to stop it._ _

__Batman was the most dangerous man on the planet._ _

__Clark’s brain started up again when he’d heard a click, and thereafter as his instincts caught something tossed towards him. When he looked in his hands, Batman had reassembled the pump, and handed it to him._ _

__“Oh, ah, isn’t this yours?” Clark was confused as to why Batman had handed this off to him. Batman had brought it with him, Batman had exclusively used it, Batman had drunk from it. Why was it now his?_ _

__“You said this lasts for a handful of days.” He’d stopped looking at Clark as he dug out his grapple shot. Clark had wanted to be with him for just a few moments more, but that was just whimsy. Crime was constant, and that was especially the case for Gotham. Clark didn’t let this speak against his nature, and he was always able to put the safety of others well above his own feelings._ _

__Superman stood and leaned over to brush his legs off from where he’d been resting. “Well, yeah, but I told you that after the fact. You already had this with you when I stopped you—and I’m not gonna ask why, I like my idea a lot,” he smiled, “so I don’t see why you’re letting me have it. What am I gonna do with it?”_ _

__Batman scoffed as he started aiming at a nearby building. “Don’t start making assumptions. I never said it was for you.”_ _

__Batman let their eyes meet one more time as he pulled the trigger, releasing the grapple, and Clark felt a blush creeping up his neck and painting his face as he realized Batman’s implications._ _

__“And don’t forget to pull your shirt down.” With that, it was Batman’s turn to abscond._ _

__Maybe grave digging wasn’t as nasty as a business as Clark had initially believed it to be._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> breast pumps are super hot, but the idea is definitely credit to OkamiPrincess, who actually had a few good ideas that helped inspire me. this one isn't too plot heavy yet, but don't worry, i plan on writing more. i especially plan on having fun once clark gets to meet brucie, the next chapter will come up in probably another two weeks!


	3. In Which Clark Has It Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark thought he could forget about Batman the day after his escapades the night before, but he really feels out of element when a new man shows interest in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I KNOW IT'S BEEN A WHILE SINCE I UPDATED THIS!!! I had some stuff going on outside of the internet that took up most of my time in December and January, but after sitting down and practically forcing myself to work on this, chapter 3 is finally out! I know some of you have been waiting anxiously for a long time for this, and I'm sooo sorry for the wait, but there shouldn't be any more delays like the last one in the future!
> 
> This chapter is actually split, because of the length this one was reaching (it was 18 pages in Word by the end of it, haha) so even though there's not direct smut between the two, the next chapter should be mostly smut with little plot progression. I mostly just wanted to write Bruce interacting with Clark.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this one!

Clark had absolutely no idea what he was doing with his life.

He’d been roused from his sleep by his straining erection and his straining breasts, but even through the dull haze of his heat and his arousal, he was able to focus, at least for a little bit, on other matters permeating his mind. He’d sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and let out a sigh as his thoughts swam through a sea of regrets.

He really didn’t know what he was doing. The things he’d done with Batman that previous night—letting the man seize him, molest him, milk him like he were the livestock Clark had grown up with—seemed like they were merely a dream. Part of Clark had desperately hoped as much, but glancing at his kitchen counter through his door ajar and noticing the breast pump that Batman had handed to him solidified his reality, and Clark let out a groan as he continued combing his hand through his mussed up curls. This was getting out of hand.

Clark couldn’t help but blame himself for the entire thing. The first time, admittedly, was entirely accidental, unintentional, with Batman accosting him entirely out of left field—and yet, Clark had felt entirely powerless to stop it. The second time it had happened, he felt more directly responsible; nothing was telling him he _had_ to go down and try to talk to Batman about the things they had done, and he’d felt like an idiot afterwards for not realizing the same things would happen again—again, feeling entirely powerless to stop it.

Clark wondered if he’d be able to protest more, resist more, if he were of his proper senses. He wondered if he could stop it, stop Batman’s hands, his mouth, his own lust, if he were simply more cognizant. Then again, did he really want to stop it?

He laid back in bed with another sigh, ready to address the issue between his legs. He wrapped a lazy hand around his erection and gave a few tugs as he continued pondering and recollecting about his encounters with the Dark Knight. He felt foolish, ensnared, and like this game he was playing with himself had no end in sight. He felt loose, and promiscuous, and he wondered briefly as he stroked his member if he’d sleep with anyone who gave him the level of attention, treated his body with the same degree of pleasure, that Batman did.

He couldn’t help but part his lips in a small moan as he entertained the thought, but the moment he realized this, the moment he noticed he was losing himself again, he had to pull back. Self-deprecation would win out over his own dark perversion.

It didn’t bother him that the person that had afflicted him so was a man. Even if he grew up in a rural town in the middle of nowhere, Clark’s parents were very adamant about him never being ashamed of who he was—both in an extraordinary and less-than-ordinary sense. Admittedly, however, Clark had never once had a sexual fantasy regarding another man, and that just added itself to the list of worrisome behaviors he had accrued within the last twenty-four hours. Ever since Batman first put his hands on him, it was all Clark could do to _not_ think about the man—the man permeated his thoughts like no other, and he was thankful he’d at least had the sense to pull his thoughts away towards more pressing matters when the time called for it. His first sexual experience was with a man, and this man was practically the only thing his brain could possibly think of.

His hand began picking up in pace a bit, and a brief image flashed through his mind as he considered bringing his heat as an inquiry to Jor-El. He’d grown up lactating, and he’d become familiar with his heats, but they were never as terrible and dangerous as this. He had maintained his pride, and as he explained to Batman the night prior, he’d felt genuine fear of being told something about his anatomy he didn’t want to hear. What if these monthly periods weren’t normal, even on Krypton? What if he wasn’t a man, what if he was something else? What if Jor-El didn’t even have an explanation for him, and Clark would never know what could be done about this?

He’d slowed down a bit as dread began filling up in his head, mixing with the strange concoction of arousal and regret, making his heart sink in his chest. That had always been a possibly before during the times when Clark would entertain actually seeking his father’s counsel on this matter, but he’d always maintained the belief that ignorance was bliss, because his heats had always been self-contained and manageable. Now, however, with the advent of Batman’s involvement, the situation became far direr. His senses became dulled when the man was expressing interest in Clark and his body, and he would even wager it was to the extent of being corrupted by kryptonite. Batman had almost exclusive control over Superman when the two were alone, whereas previously, Clark had been very independent, much to Batman’s chagrin.

What had changed? What had caused Clark to become so fixated on the man, so willing to comply, to give himself up completely? What was it that was causing Clark to lose so much of himself, so quickly? And what if Jor-El couldn’t help him?

During his previous heats, Clark had known that his body had become wired to crave release, both from his breasts and from climax, but he wasn’t aware of the extent of this before Batman had first touched him. Clark had also realized, post-coitus, that it wasn’t just his cognitive abilities that were being impaired. While he’d destroyed the sheets and the mattress in his private room in the Watchtower, he was so _certain_ when he’d clung to Batman during his ruts that he was gripping him tight enough to injure him, to completely mangle his bones and send the man off to the hospital, and yet Batman was completely fine. He’d also made the observation that he was constantly out of breath, and that he lost his breath completely in a fraction of the time it normally took when he was straight and proper.

He was scared. This relationship he was forming with Batman wasn’t just dangerous for his status amongst the League—it was dangerous for his very own well-being. The man was like a walking weapon designed specifically to subdue the Man of Steel. And he was doing a hell of a job at it.

Another image flashed briefly in his mind of Clark allowing the man to take him completely. Clark had a brief vision of him being tied down, clouded by his arousal, laying lax in his confinement. Batman splaying a hand across his chest, bringing both hands down to tug at his nipples as milk dribbled out, and Clark arching into the touch. Batman settling between his legs, and Clark spreading them, as he slid into Clark, filling him up and making him impossibly hot. Batman fornicating with him, thrusting his hips with abandon, as he held Clark’s sagging tits like they were his own property.

Clark’s own breathing had picked up as the vivid imagery found itself in his thoughts, and he all but forgot his musings prior to fantasizing about Batman claiming him and making him his. His hand gripped itself tighter around his dick, and he began fisting it, desperate to bring on his climax so that he could clear his head, however temporarily, and get on with his day.

His other hand came up to run through his hair, lightly gripping as he continued to rapidly stroke his cock. He imagined Batman gripping his hair, holding him from behind, Batman’s hand on his dick rather than his own. Batman had taken his gloves off before to touch Clark, but he entertained the idea of Batman leaving them on—Batman leaving everything on, Clark letting this man fuck him, but having absolutely no idea who this man actually was.

He arched a little bit, letting out another soft moan, as he began to stroke even faster. His orgasm was approaching quickly as Clark imagined Batman having him, and imagining himself as being such a slut as to let a man he hardly knew have his way with him entirely.

“Ba—Batman,” he gasped out. He gripped his bedding a bit, making sure he didn’t tear up this set, lifting his upper torso up off the bed to give his arm better leverage, and after a few more tugs—and after imagining Batman saying his name, his _real_ name—he found his climax, hot spurts of semen shooting from his dick like a fountain, and coating his hand, stomach, and blankets with the milky substance.

Clark had barely felt sated at all. The images of Batman overpowering him were still very clear in his mind.

“Oh—h, this is so bad,” he whispered, looking down at his hand and the mess that he’d made.

There was still the problem on his throbbing breasts—milk had begun seeping out during his sleep, and had no doubt drenched his chest in the liquid. Normally, Clark would relieve his predicament in the shower, squeezing his individual breasts and coaxing the milk out naturally, letting the water wash it all down the drain to prevent any mess. His showers would last a bit longer during his heats as a result of this, but it was never something he minded; the warm water washing over him helped him relax, in any case. He’d still need a shower, regardless, his lactation notwithstanding, and he would have, regardless, his orgasm also notwithstanding.

His dick felt as though it could have sprung back to life, however, when he saw the breast pump out of the corner of his eye. Yes, he definitely didn’t feel sated if he felt that he could pull another orgasm out from the dark, especially so if even just seeing something that reminded him of the other man was enough to bring that orgasm out into the light. He sighed, grabbing a tissue from his nightstand to clean off his hand and stomach temporarily before heading towards his bathroom.

Something stopped him as he stood up, however. The breast pump was more directly in his eyesight upon getting out of bed, and he wasn’t able to ignore it. It merely sat on his counter, delicate and innocent as if it hadn’t been a primary participant in despicable debauchery the night before, and Clark almost let out a scoff at how harmless it seemed. He looked at it for a few moments, simply staring at it, before taking another step to his shower.

He remembered how it felt, and he shuddered.

“No,” he reaffirmed to himself, “I’m not gonna do it. No way.” He was going to relieve his aching breasts in the shower, properly, like any decent person would.

He wasn’t going to use the pump, even if it had felt so sweet and so wonderful when Batman had used it on him. He let out a strangled whimper and almost doubled over when he felt his dick beginning to fill out with blood again, becoming aroused both at the memory of the breast pump and at the memory of the man who had used it before.

The man who had given it to him.

The man who had conspicuously implied that Clark was to use it.

“No, no chance!,” he continued his one-sided conversation, still intent on reaching the shower, yet making no further progress. “The guy’s a jerk, why would I entertain him by giving him what he wants?”

Clark stood there for a few moments more. The breast pump never left his sight.

He wondered, for only an instant, if Batman would want to drink from it again. He thought about his pursed lips, his bobbing throat, and the rugged manner in which he’d wipe off his mouth with the back of his hand, all like he’d just downed a bottle of soda.

Clark didn’t make it to the shower. At least, not until after he used the pump in the kitchen, and orgasmed for a second time.

“This is so, so bad,” he said with a breathless sigh.

He had no idea what he was going to do after work when he had to attend the daily League meeting, and as much as he didn’t want to, he was able to think about it now that he’d emptied his breasts for the time being, and dealt with his erections as they’d come up. He mulled it over in his head as he slipped on his super suit, and began slowly buttoning a white dress shirt on top of it. Batman, of course, was going to act as though nothing had happened between the two, that Batman hadn’t cornered Clark twice, that Batman hadn’t brought Clark to pure euphoria, and had the intentions of doing so again. Batman would conduct League business as usual, stating where they were with supervillain threats, dishing out orders and strategies, and asking if anyone had any questions before brusquely turning away and minding his own business before anyone could ask any.

Batman had said before that if anyone had any questions, that simply meant they weren’t paying attention. Flash and Green Lantern were the ones most likely to raise their hands, and that was his reasoning. Clark could sympathize.

Clark’s fingers stilled while he was wrapping his tie around his collar. What _would_ Batman do when he’d arrive to the League today? Clark didn’t spend too much time there in the first place; he was generally either socializing or springing back and forth between different crises. He was always a pretty busy person, and there weren’t many times where he was alone, so how would Batman instigate another encounter?

_Would_ Batman instigate another encounter?

Clark finished tying his tie and began to loop his belt around his hips as he continued daydreaming. Would Clark have to be the one to set time aside for Batman to be able to engage him physically again? Batman may have even been counting on that, actually. Batman had no way of reading Clark’s thoughts, especially when they weren’t in relative proximity to one another, so there was no chance of him realizing just how desperately Clark was craving him—he did, however, realize how much Clark liked what they did, simply because of how unwound Clark became the second Batman started talking down to him. Batman may have, in that case, been banking on Clark being the one to instigate it again.

But Clark hadn’t meant to do that last time—he was simply planning on having a peaceful talk between two adults! Well, adult and a manchild, really, but Clark wanted to give everyone the benefit of the doubt unless they were aliens bent on razing the planet. In either case, Batman may not have seen Clark’s purer intentions, and may have only realized his subconscious ones. Batman would take initiative when it came to seizing Clark’s body, and his breasts, but Clark probably had to take the initiative by setting up an opportunity for Batman to have his way with him again.

He ran another hand through his hair. “Jesus, why can’t I stop thinking about this? If it weren’t for my super speed, I’d be late to work thinking about this mess! Boy, I really got myself into something this time, didn’t I—“

Thankfully, his day job was involved enough to where he didn’t have that much time to doze off and think about Batman, and the disconnect was similar to when he’d first begun fixating on the man, but justice brought him out of it. He began thinking offhandedly about picking up a hobby, then mockingly so if he wasn’t able to get any answers out of Jor-El. He decided that, despite the intensity of his infatuation with Batman, his questioning would wait until after his heat had subsided—there was still a chance of this merely being a side-effect of his bizarre biology.

Believe it or not, Clark considered his duties as a superhero to be less stressful than his job at the Daily Planet, but it was never anything he couldn’t handle. The hardest part, in all actuality, was maintaining a proper appearance—he didn’t want to have his article written and finished just after being told what his next assignment would be, after all. While Clark had a hefty workload at the office, he’d always slip into a monotonous pattern, and while his work would take him the average time it would take a human being, Clark was able to distance himself from it mentally due to the general ease of the job, despite how much it expected of him.

He’d practically praised the heavens when he walked into the office and saw that the place was abuzz with some fresh news—different writers, reporters, and editors were running back and forth between different parts of the office, holding different articles and carrying different conversations. Clark didn’t want to have to focus in on what each person was saying, but it must have been a pretty big story if it had the whole office in an uproar, which was more than convenient for Clark. Now he had even less cause to daydream, since something this big must require the forefront of his focus.

“You’re in luck, Kent,” he’d heard Lois address him. She was peeking out from her cubicle, a cup of coffee in her hand. “We just got a big scoop on our hands. Go and talk to Perry about it, you’ll want to hear about it first thing from him.”

“Tell me about it,” he said with a sheepish smile. As he was heading towards the door leading into Perry’s office, said man came bursting out from it, catching Clark off guard and causing him to step back a little.

“Can somebody _please_ tell me when Kent is coming in today?!”

“M-Mr. White! Good morning to you, too!” Clark adjusted his glasses and flashed the least condescending of a grin he could muster. Did his boss always have to be this way? With his temper, he acted like a comic book character, for pete’s sake!

“Aw, quit with the niceties, Kent, save that for your interview later on today!” He put his arm around Clark’s shoulders as he ushered him into his office, and Clark shot a confused expression towards Lois as he allowed himself to be shepherded by Perry.

“An interview, Mr. White?” He smoothed down any wrinkles Perry’s hand may have caused as the man stepped back to his desk.

“What, you have cotton in your ears? Yes, kid, an interview. This is no small time gig, either, you won’t be coming back to me with some article on a family owned restaurant reaching its fiftieth year in business or anything as dull and uninspired as that. This is some big stuff! _Superman_ big!”

This was certainly starting to sound like some great news. Clark had made his debut at the Daily Planet with his “interview” with Superman back when he first donned the outfit and saved the world from imminent annihilation, and he hadn’t exactly been able to top that ever since. Clark considered himself lucky, and maybe even Perry liked him, since Perry had first given a speech about constantly staying at the top of your game if you were to work with the Planet when he hired him, and Clark hadn’t exactly been doing that, had he. His work was consistently well-written and fit the guidelines of each issue, but his subject matter had been on the decline, especially since he found less motivation for his work upon joining the League.

Clark’s curiosity had certainly been piqued, both regarding the importance of the interview, and Perry’s decision in choosing him. Maybe his Superman article way back when had left more of an impression on his boss than he’d realized? He wasn’t exactly certain why his boss had favored him, of all people, unless the article was to be about another superhero. The only person vain enough to offer an article about themselves was probably the Green Arrow, but why come to Metropolis, if that was the case?

“Well, gee, Mr. White,” he’d started as he began to take a seat that was offered to him. “This all sounds pretty nice; who was it that granted us an interview? It _must_ be someone big if you’re comparing them to that Superman article I got. Is that why you’re giving the article to me?”

Perry scoffed, and Clark’s smile faltered. “Don’t think for a second I’m handing this interview over to you just because I like you, Kent. No, the person who you’re interviewing requested you. Personally. Otherwise, I’d be handing it over to someone like Lane; her stories are far more compelling than yours on average. You could learn a thing or two from her. In fact, you probably should, just so you don’t completely bomb it with Mr. Wayne.”

Clark let out an awkward laugh. Well, that pretty much spelled out what Perry thought of him—it was disheartening hearing it straight from his mouth, but at least he wasn’t being told any of this while he was being fired.

He picked up on the last word. Did Perry say Wayne?

“As in, Bruce Wayne? He’s from Gotham, Mr. White. I appreciate the chance to interview him, but why, exactly, is he coming all the way here for an interview?” It smelled suspicious, but Clark couldn’t put his finger on why. Then it hit him. “Wait, could this have to do with Black Mask’s presence in Metropolis? Is that what the interview is gonna be about?”

“Excellent detective work, Kent, you should have went down that career path instead of winding up here. Mr. Wayne contacted us this morning before you got here about wanting to, as he put it, ‘clear up some misunderstandings’ about the criminal activity being linked back to Gotham. Apparently, he wants to ensure Metropolis and her safety, and he wants to emphasize that Mask is behind bars at Arkham Asylum, all that goody two-shoes crap. Obviously, it’s just a publicity stunt—he just wants to make himself look better among his potential constituents, he doesn’t give a damn about what any of the average civilians think.”

Clark scratched at his cheek with his finger as he considered all that Perry had to say. Clark didn’t know the man, and had only seen him on the news—he’d never had a reason to go to Gotham as Clark Kent before this whole mess had sprouted up, in the first place, so he didn’t really feel like it was fair to pass judgment on a man who seemed perfectly harmless. What he knew of him involved his summation of wealth, and he’d heard rumors about his foppish personality of a playboy, but Clark didn’t know the extent of that. He didn’t know if Wayne was stupid, but he knew he wasn’t malicious.

“Mr. Wayne donates a good portion of Wayne Enterprise’s earnings into local charities and schools, doesn’t he? You don’t think he has some underhanded reason for requesting an interview, do you, Mr. White?”

“Who cares? That’s not why I’m sending you out there, either. Mr. Wayne specifically requested you, saying he wanted the guy that managed to write an exposé on Superman, of all people, to write one on him. The whole time talking to him was like talking to a guy who couldn’t stop checking himself out in the mirror; get ready to deal with a lot of that.

“I wrote up a list of things _not_ to talk about. You’re not some undercover spy, you’re not trying to get anything juicy out of him, all you’re gonna do is talk about what Wayne wants to talk about, which is clearly this whole Black Mask deal. Focus on safety and justice and all that bullcrap.”

Perry handed him a paper that literally only said “don’t blow it”. He sure did have faith in his employees.

“I think I can manage that. I’ll do what I can to make it exciting when I’m actually writing it up,” he gave a little chuckle, and made to stand up to head to his cubicle. “Did Mr. Wayne give a time and a place for the interview?”

“Oh, yeah, I have that written down somewhere. I’ll send it to your computer in an e-mail, I know it’s after three o’clock at some upscale restaurant here downtown, so save your lunch break until then.”

That didn’t sound good to Clark. He’d have to head home before meeting with Mr. Wayne and change into something more appropriate for where they’d be conducting the interview, and Clark considered briefly on leaving his super suit behind, just in case he poked out while he was having extended contact with someone bound to notice.

“Sure thing, Mr. White.” Clark put his hand on the knob and opened the door, and he was halfway out of the lion’s den before Perry called out to him again.

“And Clark? Don’t blow it.”

It was definitely hard not to with a famous billionaire staring at Clark like he was a hearty feast to be had. Wayne’s eyes were far more lecherous and with obvious intent than the last guy who’d looked at him that way, and it made Clark’s skin crawl. They’d barely even had a chance to sit down and look at the menu before Wayne found Clark to be more fascinating than what he was going to have for lunch—heck, with that look, maybe Wayne had already decided.

The scheduled spot for the two to meet up was, actually, precisely at three o’clock, and it was at one of the most expensive restaurants in Metropolis. Not many patrons were there during the day, as it seemed the place was more popular for its dinners, but Clark and Wayne weren’t the only two dining, which only further raised goosebumps on Clark’s skin. Clark had also heard stories about Wayne being a sexual deviant, making his sex life very public, but Clark didn’t think that that sort of thing was a constant with the man.

The man was eyeing him like a cat. His hands were folded, with his chin propped up on them, and he was giving him such a sleazy grin. Clark had to take a drink of his glass of water to try to calm his nerves. This definitely wasn’t the sort of thing he wanted to deal with right then, or ever. Clark had enough on his hands with Batman! He didn’t think he’d be able to handle someone else!

“S-so!,” he managed out. He certainly hoped that he wasn’t blushing. He felt as though this interview had become a total failure already—this level of composure must not have been what Wayne had been anticipating, given Clark’s claim to fame. Then again, that lecherous look was something Clark shouldn’t have had to have prepared for in the first place.

“So,” Wayne practically purred, giving him a very obvious once over with his eyes. He finally sat back in their booth, one hand playing with the silverware on the table absently. “You were the one that wrote that fine article on Superman, aren’t you.”

Clark was expecting it to come up at some point, and he flashed Wayne a bashful grin as he rubbed at the back of his neck, a habit he’d developed as a teen. “I certainly am, yes. I was just as surprised then when he wanted the interview as I am now, Mr. Wayne. It’s an honor as a reporter to be able to have a chance encounter with someone of your stature.”

“Oh, please,” he waved a hand dismissively, “you don’t have to brown nose with me. At the end of the day, the only real difference between me and you is our income, and that’s not meant to sound like I’m talking down to you, or anything. I’m really nothing special, I’ve just got a big bank account.”

Clark continued to smile, even if what Wayne was saying was a bit strange. The differences went further than that—at the end of the day, Clark was a superhero, and Wayne wasn’t.

“Besides, you can call me Bruce. The only people I have call me ‘Mr. Wayne’ are people I don’t like.”

Then, he winked at Clark, and he was certain he flared up and stained his face red with his blush.

“O-oh, ah—“

Bruce let out a deep laugh, and sat forward in his seat again. “Oh, aren’t you a cute one! Are you always like this when someone you’re supposed to be interviewing shows an interest in you? You get so red, it just makes me wanna tease you more!”

Clark didn’t know how he felt about being teased, and, again, he thought about Batman, albeit briefly. He didn’t consider what Batman had done to be teasing, and, despite his hesitation, Clark had entirely consented to their acts. Clark knew more about Bruce than he did about Batman, but he wasn’t entirely happy with being treated like he was just a game.

He adjusted his glasses and tried to calm himself down. “Are you always like this with reporters you let interview you, Mr. Wayne?” He tried to sound confident in his words, but not confrontational. Essentially, he tried making it clear that he wasn’t exactly comfortable with this.

“Please, just call me Bruce. I’m only like this with the cute ones, anyway. Do you really not get this that often? You probably mostly get interviews with straight men, then. Like Superman.” That lecherous grin came back, and he folded his hands and propped up his chin again, like he was studying something fascinating. Clark couldn’t tell if that was how the guy expressed his attraction, or if there was something else motivating his scrutinizing gaze.

Clark didn’t exactly care that Bruce thought he was cute, he just wanted him to stop looking at him that way. He felt as though he would put himself into a compromising situation, both himself and Perry, if he didn’t, at least, play along to an extent. “N-not many people express their, ah, attraction to me, no.” He forced a smile, and hoped it didn’t look that way. “Especially not in such a blunt manner. You’re very straightforward, Mister—oh, Bruce.”

“There you go,” he pointed a finger-gun at Clark and resumed his position. “I get that a lot, people usually dread conversations with me because I don’t hold back what I mean. I think I get that from my butler, now that I think about it.”

Clark almost sputtered as he was taking another drink from his glass. “You have a butler?” He didn’t mean for it to sound as accusatory as it did, and, frankly, he ought to have surmised that on his own, given Bruce’s status and wealth.

“Yeah, but I don’t really see him like that. He mostly takes care of the manor because he has nothing else to do during his day except chastise me for not settling down, but I doubt a day where that’ll happen will be coming any time soon.” Bruce’s smile grew softer as he talked about his butler, and Clark could see that there was some fondness towards the man, and it was refreshing to see that kind of warmth on someone’s face.

Clark didn’t have, what he considered to be, a negative opinion about Bruce, seeing as how the two had only just met, but his forwardness was definitely off-putting. Clark appreciated being able to see pure, raw humanity in the man’s eyes, even if the tenderness had come shortly after unadulterated lust. Of course, the purpose of the interview (that they hadn’t even started, because Clark was silly and got distracted by unrelated matters) wasn’t to investigate into Bruce’s personal life, and he was slightly taken off-guard by the man divulging something as personal as his feelings for his butler.

“Hey, tell me about Superman,” Bruce started up again. “It’s pretty amazing that his first statement towards all of mankind was in an article that you wrote. I didn’t get to hear too much about the circumstances of the interview, either. Hell, I didn’t even start taking an interest in him until recently. What’s he like?”

It wasn’t just dull paranoia rooting itself in the back of Clark’s mind: there was definitely something behind Bruce’s words. Perry had been sarcastic that morning about Clark’s deduction skills, but he certainly wasn’t cut out for what Batman and some of the other superheroes did. Clark could only think in a linear way, and while he saw the world in shades of grey, he approached matters in a very black and white manner. Something had to be directly in front of him, had to be direct, or Clark wouldn’t be able to grasp it.

Of course, this man wasn’t some secret mastermind, or anything like that. Clark could just tell that the man knew more than he was letting on, but what could there be to know? He didn’t know Superman’s secret identity, there was no way he could. Clark was especially thankful that he’d left his super suit behind, just in case.

Plus, this was supposed to be Clark interviewing Bruce, not the other way around—unless he was just making small talk. Clark was really off the ball, what with the developments with Batman knocking him off kilter.

“There’s not really much to tell,” Clark folded his arms on the table, giving the same answers he’d given everyone else. “He made pretty much everything public knowledge. He’s the last son of this planet called Krypton, and he’s just helping out because he’s a genuinely nice guy. You don’t think he has some other reasons like everyone else, do you?” Clark hated hearing that he—Superman—was only keeping the peace because there was something in it for him. Clark didn’t work for the appreciation of others, but it made some days harder than others.

“No, no, not at all! I can tell he’s doing what he thinks is best, no faulting a man for following his heart.” Bruce dropped his gaze to idly play with the silverware again.

“You sound as though you have other feelings on the matter,” Clark was able to confidently pick up on that, at least.

“I don’t think he does more harm than good, nothing like that. I know a lot of people like to complain about him like he’s a nuisance, but he could, at least, save the world without destroying so many buildings. He puts a lot of people out of work, which puts a lot of people out of their homes—but I’m assuming that’s just an unintended side-effect.”

Superman’s behavior had plenty of unintended side-effects, but Clark wasn’t about to divulge in the fact that Superman also, in fact, lactates once a month.

“I don’t know how Superman sees it, since we’re not very close, but, in my respectful opinion, Bruce, I feel that, on the scale of how Superman operates, and what he has to deal with, it’s a little unavoidable. The collateral damage, that is. Even if he’s a superhuman from another planet, he’s not perfect. He protects more lives than he harms, in any case.”

“Tell me about some of his imperfections, then,” that smile came back, but there was a different glint in Bruce’s eyes as they met with Clark’s once again. “He’s so fascinating, being an alien and all that, and he’s handsome, to boot. You and he are alike, in that regard.”

Clark wanted to sink in his seat. He was about to have a compelling discussion with this man, however unrelated it was to the entire reason the two were meeting like this, only for it to devolve into sophomoric flirtations.

What could Clark say? When asked about Superman’s personality by people who’d known he’d written the article, he mostly just gave as simple an explanation as he could—he was a good, honest man who wanted to make a difference in the world. There wasn’t much opportunity for him to be able to go on a tangent about his persona, and he’d never been asked something as specific as his imperfections.

Clark decided to take the personal route, since he knew he’d never see this man again, and talking indirectly about himself was completely harmless. “He can be a little too serious, I guess. He gets too focused and too driven at times, if that makes sense. When he puts his mind to it, nothing can really get in the way of his goals, and that can have his good sides and its bad sides. Oh, and, I guess he can get distracted easily.”

“Distracted in what way?” Bruce seemed genuinely interested.

“Oh, you know,” Clark shrugged. “It doesn’t become a problem when he’s fighting crime, but his personal life can become a bother to him.” Clark was, of course, referencing recent events. He didn’t know of much else to talk about. “You know how if you have something personal going on, and it just brings itself up at the worst moments? That happens to him sometimes. Like I said, he’s not perfect.”

Clark really needed to gain control of the conversation, now that the ball was in his court. Perry would tan his hide if he came back without anything to report on for the next issue.

“How close are you with Superman?”

“Oh, what do you mean?”

“Like, are you close enough that you _know_ his personal affairs that distract him?”

Clark shifted in his seat a little. His control was drifting further and further away from him, the more he let Bruce talk. He didn’t know if he should politely interject, because, aside from stalling, the conversation wasn’t doing any harm.

“He doesn’t really—have too much going on, from what I know about him.”

“So you’re not really his friend, then. At least, that’s not the sort of stuff he talks about with you. Okay, then,” Bruce straightened himself in his seat, and laid his palms flat on the table. Clark wondered when their waiter would arrive to take their order. “Who _does_ he have to tell those sorts of things to? I know he’s an alien in a foreign world, but he must have someone close to him, right? Where does he stand when it comes to romance, things like that? Does he just isolate himself?”

Clark’s mouth was agape momentarily as he sat through Bruce’s bombardment of questions. “M-Mr. Wayne—Bruce—forgive my forwardness—“

“Nah, be as forward as you want.”

“O-okay—did you—how do I say it—did you even—“

“Plan on giving an interview? I mean, I can, I don’t want you getting in trouble with your boss; but I’d much rather talk to the only person who’s managed to get close enough with Superman to be able to write that fascinating article about him. I just have a few questions about him, anyway, so after we get those cleared away, I’ll answer anything you want about the Black Mask fiasco.” Bruce gave him a playful wink, and Clark had to look down at the table as his heart jumped again.

Clark adjusted his glasses, and tried to meet the man’s icy eyes again. “That seems fair, I suppose.” He offered a smile. “Sorry if I seem reluctant, I’m just not used to people singling me out just to talk about Superman. I mostly fall below the radar, I don’t attract very much attention.”

“I guess you’re the opposite of Superman, then,” Bruce said with a grin. This man was awfully smiley, wasn’t he; Clark still had a hard time finding legitimate friendliness in the vibes that Bruce was giving off.

“I suppose so.” Clark took a moment to lick his lips as he carefully chose his words in response to the plethora of questions Bruce had asked moments ago. He didn’t really know what to say, but anything was better than nothing. He chose, again, to use himself as the example—Bruce would have no way of knowing that Clark was speaking personally, anyhow. “Well, from what I know about him, he’s not exactly shy, but he doesn’t feel like he fits in anywhere. You know the Justice League? Well, he’s a part of that, so he has other superheroes like himself, but, from what I know, he doesn’t feel particularly close with any of them. It’s hard for him to make genuine connections with people, but I know that he tries.”

Bruce hummed, and sat further back in his seat. He seemed to be weighing what Clark was saying, much to his confusion.

“As far as romance goes, well, since making connections is hard for him in the first place, making a romantic one would be even more difficult. He knows a relationship couldn’t be public, or else the person he’s with could be at serious risk to any criminals wanting to get at Superman, or put him in a jeopardizing situation. There’s that. It’s mostly just having a problem getting close to people that stops him from pursuing anything like that.”

Bruce was silent for a moment before he responded. He wasn’t exactly looking at Clark when he spoke. “Sounds like a pretty lonely existence.”

Clark simply nodded. He wasn’t sure of what else to say. Bruce seemed to understand, though, and that filled Clark with some strange glimmer of hope.

Bruce eventually shrugged, and his smile broke the silence. “I guess that’s all I really wanted to know, for the time being, that is. You did a great job answering those questions; I can tell you really spoke from the heart, and I admire that in a man.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

“No problem! Now, onto the next order of business—“

Their waiter eventually came and delivered the meals they had ordered. Since it was lunch, the two of them had ordered something light for the each of them, with Clark ordering the least expensive thing on the menu. Over their meals, Bruce allowed the scheduled, and intended, interview to go underway, and Clark had even less control than when they were speaking about Superman before—Bruce was making it clear which questions he’d wanted asked, and which ones he wanted answered. It seemed very strategic and intentional to Clark, and it allowed him to be witness to the man’s buried intelligence.

Clark learned that the man wasn’t as foolish as he’d lead others to believe. Everything he said seemed very intentional, and he had a way of guiding the conversation to be what he wanted it to be about. He was very charismatic, and very smart. At first, Clark had been put off by the man’s overt friendliness, but that wore off the more the two spoke. When the initial discussion about Black Mask had concluded, and Clark had gotten enough to be able to write his article—and after Bruce had said all that he’d planned on saying about the matter--their conversation fell to being about other things, more casual things, and, eventually, the two got to talking about one another.

“You grew up on a farm?” They’d both finished with their meals by the end of the hour; Clark had only loosely been keeping track of the time. Bruce sat with his arms crossed, an incredulous and giddy look on his face. “What kind of farm was it? Was it the kind with produce, or did you have animals?”

“It was a mix of both, my father would harvest corn, and he’d also sell things like meat and milk in town. Smallville, believe it or not, was a pretty small place. We didn’t even have a Wal-Mart.”

“You’re kidding me! This place sounds so humble and unassuming, the complete opposite in every way from what I’ve seen of Metropolis. I guess that’s where you get your charm from.”

It still knocked him off balance a little, but he was growing more accustomed to the man’s flirtations. He was curious, to an extent, as to whether the flirtations were genuine, or a part of the game Bruce had obviously drawn up. “I’m definitely not as charming as you—I’d never be able to tell someone so directly that I was into them, and then just play it off as if it was nothing.”

“Oh, is that bothering you?”

“What? No, not really—“ Yes, really, it was, but Clark didn’t have the bravery to say as such.

“Oh, so, do you like it, then?” Bruce had a very dangerous look in his eye, and Clark wanted to duck for cover. He didn’t like the tone, that purr, and he certainly didn’t like what must have been going through Bruce’s head. Bruce was definitely giving him bedroom eyes, and it almost made Clark’s heart leap out of his chest.

“I-I wasn’t saying that, either, you know--!”

“Tell me, Mr. Kent. Or, is it Clark?” His smooth voice felt like silk to Clark’s ears, and while it didn’t have anything on Batman’s rough, grating tongue that he’d grown to crave, it was certainly doing similar things to Clark at that moment, and that was something to fear. Bruce leaned forward on the table, and clasped one of Clark’s hands into his own, and Clark was so taken back by the gesture, he momentarily forgot to breathe. “Are you as lonely as Superman?”

The other man was stroking the back of his hand with his thumb, and Clark went ridged. His eyes darted from side to side, as if searching for something that would help distract the man from very blatantly coming onto Clark. “Oh, I, ah—“

“You know, Clark,” the man continued to purr as he looked at Clark’s hand like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “I’ve seen Superman before. Not up close and personal, nothing like that, but I’ve seen him on the news, in the papers. Like I said before, I didn’t really take an interest in him up until recent, should I say, developments.”

“Wh-what exactly does that mean, Bruce?” Clark felt as though cotton had filled his mouth, like his tongue was swollen. He was going to have to swear off any human contact while he was in heat, at this rate, if this is how his body responded to any level of affection. Clark thought it was just Batman that did this to him, but he was clearly mistaken—he’d have to speak to Jor-El about this as soon as possible. This was a very big problem.

Bruce completely ignored his question, however. He merely looked Clark in the eyes, smile never straying from his face, before looking back down at the hand in his gentle hold. “It wasn’t until recently that I’d realized how attractive he was, either. His eyes are so vibrant, such a stunning shade of blue, but, of course, I’m sure you knew that already. His face always has a heroic expression on it, too—he really looks like a dependable guy. I wonder what other sorts of expressions he can make.”

It felt less and less like Bruce was actually talking _to_ him. Clark was beginning to feel like a soundboard; a soundboard that Bruce had intentions on molesting. How did Clark keep ending up in these situations?

“I wonder,” Bruce started playing with Clark’s individual fingers, and he looked up at him through lidded, hungry eyes, “what sort of expressions _you_ can make, Clark.”

Yeah, this was a very big problem.

“E-excuse me, I have to—go use the restroom!” Clark pulled away and immediately stood up before his other big problem became too noticeable.

“It’s in the back,” Bruce said, a triumphant look on his face as he leaned back into his seat.

Clark didn’t even take the time to thank him before he ran off, however. He thanked every single god in existence that the only problem radiating from Bruce’s heavy language was between his legs, and nothing worse, like lactating. He knew he had nothing to worry about, since he’d taken care of that particular issue that morning, and because his breasts weren’t heavy, he was much more aware and competent than he’d been his few times with Batman. That haze wasn’t there, but he knew he couldn’t just will his growing erection away. He knew he’d have to seize his orgasm, and that he’d have to take care of himself in a public bathroom, with the man causing this affliction no more than twenty feet away.

He’d secured himself in the furthest stall from the door, making himself as out of sight as possible, and when the door was properly locked, he began undoing his pants, pulling his hardening cock out into the air. He let out a little sigh and pressed his forehead against the cool metal of the door as he started giving himself a few strokes. He’d have to finish this quickly, lest Bruce grow worried—even worse, lest Bruce become entirely aware of what he’d been doing in there. He probably already knew.

He must have thought that he’d had the tolerance of a teenager, what with how fast Bruce’s words seemed to have affected him, but it wasn’t Clark’s fault! Like the times with Batman, like the times that man had seduced him, it felt as though a switch was being flipped, and Clark’s mind immediately went primal with passion. It was a good thing that haze of arousal wasn’t poisoning his mind, and that he was able to catch it the moment it began to flare up. Clark didn’t want to begin to imagine the humiliation of sitting there and actually feeding into what Bruce was saying like some sort of whore.

Clark had to bite his lip to suppress a moan. There was that thought again—the thought of being loose, promiscuous, the thought of letting any man have their way with him. He was already achieving that with Batman, but now, that little masochistic fantasy was almost proving to be true, and Clark wasn’t exactly sure how to handle it. He stroked his dick faster, seeing that precum was beginning to bud at the tip.

He had to hurry up with this as soon as possible, so he could get back out there and conclude his lunch with the playboy—yeah, those rumors were definitely true—and the only way he knew how to do that was to turn off his self-hate for a few moments and let himself relish in whatever images his mind wanted to conjure up. He closed his eyes and let himself wander, and soon, he’d seized hold of the Bat that he’d shut away into his subconscious and brought him out into the light.

His breathing began to pick up as he thought about Batman’s hands on him, on his breasts, groping him as if he were a woman, as if he were an object. His hands trailing down and untucking his suit—or, maybe, he’s already naked—and spreading Clark’s legs, looking at the prize that awaited him in between them. Clark would be so modest and shy if Batman were to have him in such a position, and Clark could just imagine the way his cold, calculated eyes would shift into something fueled entirely by lust. He thought about Batman spreading his cheeks, looking at his hole like it was buried treasure, as Clark fussed and squirmed on—on whatever surface he was on.

“Please,” he whispered, and his hand trailing passed and picking up some precum was beginning to lubricate his dick, making his strokes more fluid, stimulating himself further.

He imagined Batman spreading his hole wide open with just his thumbs, and taking a look inside, making some dismissive comment on how loose Clark already was; implying Clark had readied himself for Batman to take him, or implying Clark had just finished sleeping with other men, sleeping with—

Sleeping with Bruce, maybe—

“No, no, I can’t do that,” he muttered to himself.

He thought back on Batman’s fabricated implications, and all Clark could do, in his head, was cover his face in shame. Bruce wasn’t in the picture, it didn’t feel right fantasizing about a man he’d only just met, after all, and he didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction of being Clark’s masturbatory material. He thought about Batman keeping his gloves on, and slipping two broad fingers into Clark’s aching hole, being rough, treating him without a single care. Clark would arch his back, and he’d moan, and spread his legs further, telling Batman he wanted more.

Batman would call him filthy, and Clark would whimper. Batman would pull his cock out, and he’d start whistling—

Clark straightened himself a bit from his slouch as the sound of innocent whistling pierced his ears, and his hand stilled on his cock as he’d realized what that meant. Someone had entered the bathroom without him realizing it, too fixated on his fantasies, and now, all of a sudden, Clark felt completely ashamed.

Clark was a simple boy, and was raised by Ma and Pa to never curse, but golly, if he could, he’d swear like a sailor at the painful interruption.

He wasn’t about to stop, however, he just had to make it less obvious of what he was doing. His hand resumed, however languid, distracted by the person suddenly in the restroom with him, and he didn’t even have to use his super hearing to try to discern what they were doing, and where they were going. He bit his lip, and tried to focus on both tasks at hand, but his anxiety grew more and more as he realized the other man in the room was slowly approaching his stall.

He willed them desperately to just pick a different stall, one that wasn’t right next to him, and to stop coming closer to where he was trying to hide. If he didn’t make any sound, they wouldn’t realize he was masturbating in a top-society restaurant’s top-society restroom, but his cock was practically aching with how hard it was throbbing, and how badly he needed to cum. His heart rate was accelerating, not even exclusively from his act of pleasure.

He almost gasped when the man stopped right at his stall, and he almost fell backwards with shock when he saw whose shoes were visible beneath the partition.

“You in there, Clark?”

He knew. He knew exactly what Clark was doing, and Clark wanted to curse him for it, for acting so innocent.

“Y-yeah! Just, just finishing up, is all! I think I—got a stain on my pants, is all.” He winced when he realized how pathetic and untrue that sounded.

There was a bit of silence.

“Let me help you out, guy. I’m great at these sorts of problems.”

Clark’s eyes widened, and his heart leapt into his throat.

“N-no, it’s fine, really! I—I can take care of it myself, no problem!”

“Yeah, you can take care of it yourself,” Bruce agreed, “but I can help take care of it better. Come on, no strings attached.”

“Y-you’re very adamant about this, Mr. Wayne!”

“I told you, call me Bruce. And I can’t help it when I find a sweet young thing like you that catches my eye. I’ll be doing us both a favor. I promise I’m clean.”

Clark’s heart was hammering in his chest, and he hadn’t felt this genuinely frightened in so long, and it was from something as arbitrary as another man wanting to jerk him off in a bathroom. Honestly, in all of Clark’s days, this would have been the wildest thing he’d ever done, had he agreed to it. Clark had always been a simple and honest person, always playing by the book, and rarely deviating from it to make his own executive decisions. The thought of letting another man, a complete stranger, stroke him off and bring him to climax in a public space absolutely terrified him.

But then again, hadn’t that been what Batman had been doing?

Hadn’t Batman been doing that exact thing, but because Clark was without inhibitions and compunction, he fed into it, rather than ran away?

He and Batman weren’t even official, in the first place. They’d only messed around twice, but Batman implied wanting to fool around more in the future, and Clark had been looking forward to it, too.

If he agreed to what Bruce was proposing, if he unlocked that door and opened it for him, he wouldn’t be betraying Batman.

Would he?

“I don’t mean to rush a decision, or anything, but we don’t exactly have all day to wait around for one. Your boss is expecting you back at the office soon, isn’t he? We should get a move on, then; wouldn’t wanna make your boss mad.”

Gosh, he could practically hear the wink in his voice, but Bruce had a point. It was probably because Clark was already so aroused, but the offer was sounding more and more tempting. If Clark had been struck with a wave of his heat, he would have agreed the moment he recognized the footsteps, but now that he was of sound mind, there was still that hesitation that was preventing him from doing something stupid.

“I’m not the kind to kiss and tell, unless it’ll benefit me,” Bruce continued to coerce Clark. “No one’s gonna know about this. Promise.”

Clark was staring at the lock on the stall door, weighing his options.

He reached out a hesitant, and shaking hand. He really didn’t know what he was doing with his life.

This was his biggest problem yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are curious, I got involved in a relationship in November, and that went downhill real fast. I was too emotionally involved with what was going on, so the fic took a break since I couldn't really focus on it. This past month, though, I've gotten back into my hobbies while looking for a new job, and now I pretty much have nothing but free time.
> 
> If you're interested, please check out my tumblr that I made recently! I post mostly DC and my art, but you guys can get in touch with me more personally at http://stardust-empyrean.tumblr.com !


	4. In Which Clark Has It Very Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark was becoming rather skilled at making terrible decisions. It couldn't possibly get any worse than this, can it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS i wanna thank you all for the great comments you've been leaving me! This fic has been getting a lot of positive attention, and I want to thank all of you for enjoying it as much as you have been! Really, all your kind words mean more to me than you'll ever know. Here's the next chapter of the fic! This one was a little rushed towards the end (I finished this at 5 am, lmao), and there's no real plot advancement here, but there's some pretty lengthy smut throughout the duration of it that I hope you guys enjoy. As always, leave a comment if you like it!
> 
> For those of you either reading it for the first time, or re-reading it, I edited this chapter just a tiny bit. I had some typos, mixing Bruce's name up with Batman's, and I fixed the few times that that happened. Now, you can enjoy it!

This was bad. This was so bad. This was the worst thing Clark had ever done.

“Do you think doing this in a public bathroom is such a smart idea?,” he’d tried to reason with Bruce, and with himself, as he’d opened the door and allowed the other man to cross his proverbial threshold. He could turn back now, he could stop this descent, but Clark didn’t think that he would. This man wanted Clark, and Clark wanted something, anything—something more than he could get from Batman. Still, he felt guilty, immensely so, but he couldn’t determine if that was his compunction trying to reach out to him to be his guiding light, or if it was his attachment to Batman, his attachment to whatever they were, that was telling him he was being unfaithful.

Clark didn’t think he would stop this. He didn’t know how far Bruce had planned to go in the bathroom, but Clark had his own limits. The setting wasn’t particularly disdainful, as he was certain this bathroom was much cleaner than some of the others he’d been in, but he would use anyone walking in as an excuse to stop, should it come to that.

Clark didn’t know what he wanted. Bruce was an attractive man, dangerously so, but he wasn’t Batman, and that was who Clark wanted.

He almost laughed. That sounded so stupid—the person he’d been pining for was the absolute worst person his heart could have chosen to yearn for. Then again, there was still the possibility that he only felt that way about Batman because of his heats.

And in regards to his heats, Clark felt that, had he been blinded by such, he would have been far more inclined to accept Bruce’s offer. There was a dull buzzing in the back of his mind, so he wasn’t entirely free from its ensnarement, but Clark wasn’t shamelessly agreeing to something he very much shouldn’t have been agreeing to. To a degree, it was still affecting him—the promise of getting off, and having another human being to help him with such being far too tempting for his feeble state—but he wasn’t throwing himself to the first man that showed an interest in him with hopes of being defiled.

Maybe that was what he was doing, maybe that was exactly what he was doing, but Clark wouldn’t let him see it as such. He rationalized letting Bruce into the stall as it being what people “normally” did. People had reckless encounters like this all the time, it was part of being passionate and alive. This was something that would make a great story, if Clark were the kind of person to kiss and tell. But he wasn’t, and in all of his rationality, he couldn’t find a single good answer for why he was doing this.

If he’d thought about it long enough, he would have come to the conclusion that he was lonely. That may have been what made him ache for Batman, and why he was agreeing to be fondled by this man he didn’t know. Maybe Clark was just really, really stupid.

“Your muscles are so fine,” Bruce had ignored him, and began groping at Clark’s bulging biceps through his suit jacket, voice highly appreciative. “You certainly do work out for a reporter. You have someone you’re trying to impress with these muscles?” Bruce winked at him, and began sliding the jacket off from Clark’s shoulders. His hands passed over his muscles more directly as a result, and he let out a low, appreciative hum. “You certainly work out, indeed.”

“I—I like to stay fit,” was Clark’s shoddy response. If his face hadn’t heated up then, he was certain his blush was obvious by then. This was already so much different than his encounters with Batman. Bruce seemed like the kind of person who would actually be _nice_ , and Clark didn’t know how he felt about that.

Bruce’s hands passed over his arms and up his shoulders, drifting down to the front and settling on his pecs. He gave them a gentle squeeze, and Clark’s breath hitched. “Your chest is so defined, too. Even through all these layers, I can see you have a very—desirable body, Clark.”

He gave Clark a lidded expression, a soft smile, before yanking his tie away from him and beginning to undo the first few buttons of his shirt. Clark met his gaze, and swallowed before bashfully looking down at their feet.

“I take it this is your first time doing something like this.” Bruce spoke confidently, as if he wasn’t planning any sort of public debauchery, and Clark blushed even more. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing to be scared of. I might be a regarded public figure, but I don’t bite. Not unless you want me to.”

“What,” Clark started, licking his lips in nervousness. “What do you—wanna do? I mean, you aren’t thinking of—of f-fu—“

“Fucking you?,” Bruce finished his sentence for him, and Clark gave a small nod after a few moments. “Well, it would be awkward in such a confined space. Tell you what.” He finished unbuttoning Clark’s shirt, and he pulled it out from where it had been tucked into his slacks. He then stroked his fingertips languidly against his abs, and Clark suppressed a shudder. “Let’s say I—give you a little taste of it right now, because I like you, Clark. Judging by your reactions to all this, I bet you don’t hear that very often.”

“N-not from people who are actively fondling me, no.”

“Oh, I can’t help but fondle.” His hands slid back up, and cupped his chest again. “There’s so much of you I want to fondle. I can’t help that, can I. We can’t help the people that we like, Clark.”

That rung very true with Clark, but he didn’t say as much.

“I especially can’t help that you’re letting me fondle you.” He squeezed his pecs, delicately, and Clark couldn’t help but arch into the other man’s touch. “You like that, don’t you? Is your chest sensitive?”

“R-recently, it has been. It’s not—ah—normally, though.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.” He removed his hands for a brief moment to slip Clark’s shirt off, leaving him bare from the waist up, before returning to his bosom, lightly groping and stroking. The chilled air around them was hitting Clark’s skin, raising goosebumps and erecting his nipples, which Bruce had started to play with. He gave another appreciative hum when Clark let out a soft moan, reflexively covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Don’t do that, I won’t be able to hear the cute sounds you wanna make. Your voice is nice, too, it’s deep, but smooth. You could be a radio broadcaster, if you wanted. It’d probably be less stressful than being a reporter, from what I know about it.”

It absolutely befuddled Clark as to how this man could speak so casually when he was outright groping him in the middle of a bathroom, but Clark didn’t comment on it. It was becoming increasingly harder to speak—he was becoming too distracted, with Bruce’s hands on him, and the increasing guilt welling itself at the pit of his stomach.

“You’re shaking,” Bruce commented, that sly smile never leaving his face. “You’re nervous. What about this is making you uneasy?” His hands didn’t leave his body, but instead, went to his sides and stroked them soothingly as Bruce took another step closer, practically pressing himself up against Clark, leaving him little room to escape, should he plan it. “It’s okay, like I said, I don’t bite. I wouldn’t want to scare off a pretty little thing like you.”

Clark couldn’t help but sigh; Bruce’s hands were so soothing on his sides, and he wanted to lean into his touch even more, yet he couldn’t fully commit to what he was doing. “It’s nothing,” he forced out, trying to ignore his own hesitance. He brought up nervous hands and rested them against Bruce’s broad shoulders—he still couldn’t look the man in the face for more than a brief second. “I’ve just—never done this before. It feels weird, doing this in a bathroom.”

“Are you worried about someone walking in?”

“Well, yeah, aren’t you?”

Bruce’s smile widened, showing a bit of teeth, as he leaned forward to press his lips against Clark’s neck, causing him to jump and let out a soft gasp. He could feel Bruce’s lips against his sensitive skin, and he wanted to pull away. “That’s just what makes it more exciting, don’t you agree?”

“That—you’ll get in trouble!”

“Oh, come on, we’re not little kids playing hooky, or anything. The worst I’ll get is just a light reprimand from my P.R. rep, though I can’t say the same for you if your boss finds out about this. We’d better make it quick, then, shouldn’t we?”

He began leaving light, gentle kisses along Clark’s neck, and, maybe it was because he wouldn’t get the same treatment from the man he really wanted to be with, but Clark felt genuine surprise at the other man treating him so—so romantically, especially given where they were. Clark tilted his head a bit, as an act of permission, and an act of submission to let the man pepper his skin with his butterfly kisses. His breathing was becoming a bit more ragged, and he could feel his legs shaking.

“Baby, don’t be so nervous.” Clark audibly swallowed at the nickname. His hands were still stroking Clark’s sides, and Clark found himself pressing against the man just a bit further, more so than he’d already been given their confined space. He was definitely warming up to this, his nervousness slowly abating. “That’s it, just relax. I’m not doing anything to hurt you. I’m gonna make you feel real good, okay, baby?”

He was still shaking, and each time Bruce referred to him affectionately, it only rattled him further. Clark was pressed right up against Bruce’s chest, and he nodded against him.

“God, you’re so cute,” he went on. “You’re acting like a blushing schoolgirl. You’ve really never been like this with someone else? I find that hard to believe, what with those blue eyes and this gorgeous body.”

Of course, Clark couldn’t go and tell a perfect stranger that he’d been entangled with Batman just the night before, and Bruce’s question had Clark thinking about the man far more directly than he’d been before—he’d wanted it, and he’d have preferred it, but now, he was making very direct comparisons between the way Bruce was treating him, versus the way Batman had been treating him. Bruce was being far more delicate and deliberate, whereas Batman was demeaning and domineering. There was a complete reversal between the two’s behavior, and as Clark made note of this, and as he’d wished it was Batman’s hands on him instead, the knot of guilt grew tighter.

“There—there’s another guy,” Clark said, and he bit his lip and screwed his eyes shut. He really seemed like a slut, and it made the problem between his legs even worse, like his guilt.

“Oh—h,” Bruce sounded entertained. He stepped back a bit, and Clark wanted to follow after him, and he saw that lidded look in his eyes again. Bruce then began to busy himself with Clark’s belt, and Clark had to suck in another breath. “Now that is interesting. Would he be jealous that I made you my boy toy for the time being?”

“I don’t—know,” Clark was distracted by the deft hands and how quickly they managed to pull the belt from the loops of his pants. He worried his lip even more at being called a “boy toy”.

“Well? Tell me what he’s like. I wanna know what kind of man it takes to captivate you, I wanna know if I can compare. Is that why you’ve been nervous? And here I thought it was just an act.”

It was certainly the reason Clark was so nervous, but it was so hard for him to speak, even when asked direct questions. A hand came up to cover his mouth as he looked down at the other man’s hands undoing his pants and slipping them down, pulling out his clothed erection from within. Batman being on his mind wasn’t the only thing causing him to lose his composure—the man’s bravado and courage was definitely knocking Clark off kilter.

Bruce got on his knees as he peeled Clark’s underwear down to reveal his erection in its entirety, and he couldn’t help the little noise that escaped his throat. “Yes, good, keep making noises like that, baby. Come on, talk to me, tell me about this other man.”

Bruce was a strange one, for wanting to hear about Clark’s other sexual experiences while he had his hand slowly stroking his dick. He couldn’t help but tilt his hips forward, just a tad.

“W-well,” he started, trying to still the wavering in his voice, “he’s really—how do I put it—he’s really, uhm, controlling.”

“Ooh, so you’re into that, are you? Being dominated? That just makes you even cuter, Clarky. Can I call you that? I think I’ll call you that.” Bruce leaned forward and licked a long, fat stripe up the underside of Clark’s dick, and he let out another strangled gasp. One hand shot up to grip the top of the metal partition dividing the stalls that they were in, careful not to seize it too roughly, and the other hesitated, racked with nerves as it hovered over Bruce’s head. Bruce was just smiling when he pulled away, not after having another pass from base to tip with his hot tongue.

“Very cute. Your dick’s not bad, too. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a masochist, Clarky. You into humiliation, too?”

“M-masochist?” The Man of Steel, a masochist?

“Tell me about what sort of things this other guy does to you.” Clark began breathing harder as Bruce’s hand picked up the pace, stroking him more in earnest. “I think that’s pretty hot, that you let yourself be bossed around by another man. You’re so muscular, you could easily intimidate anyone you wanted, but instead, you let yourself be a bitch behind closed doors. What sort of stuff are you into, Clarky? What sort of stuff do you let your daddy do to you?”

Bruce’s hand stopped for a moment, and when Clark looked down, he saw what appeared to be a worried expression on his face. This lasted for probably no longer than a second, and Clark was a bit curious, but that curiosity was spirited away as Bruce’s smile came back and his wrist pumped his dick in fervor. It seemed as though, briefly, that something was on Bruce’s mind.

“W-what does he have you call him?”

“N-nothing,” Clark managed. He pulled his hand from where it had been frozen above Bruce’s head, and he began running his fingers through his own curls. “He mostly—he gets really, ah, rough with me, and he—he insults me a lot. That’s m-most of what we do. He doesn’t—I wouldn’t say what we have is intimacy—“ He’d never even entertained the idea of having something to call Batman that wasn’t just his name, but now, Clark was curious.

“You like being insulted?” Bruce seemed to be amused. “I won’t be able to do a whole lot of that with your cock stuffed down my throat, I wouldn’t exactly say I’m the aggressive type, anyhow. I like to treat my toys with respect, but it’s nice to know how you get your jollies.”

Clark let out another strangled sound. Bruce wanted to suck his dick? Even more than that, he wanted Clark’s dick down his throat. Clark suddenly felt very dizzy.

“Oh, M-Mr. Wayne, I don’t think I can do this—even with that other guy, we don’t go very far, and—and I haven’t had much experience outside of this, and that, and—“

“First of all, Clarky, I said for you to call me Bruce. Enough with this ‘Mr. Wayne’ nonsense, I’m down on my knees licking your dick; I think we’re through the formalities.” Bruce shot him a wink, and Clark felt electricity run through his spine. “Second of all, I said we were gonna test the waters, didn’t I? All I’m gonna do is suck your dick, because, really, it’s all I can do to _not_ swallow it whole as we speak. I mean, come on, have you seen this thing? God, I can’t wait for it to choke me. Anyway, if you really want to stop, we can, but I get the feeling that even though you have some apprehension, you want to do this. The fact that you haven’t even pushed me away once is a clear sign of that.”

Clark’s face was a bright red with the filth that had poured from Bruce’s mouth, and even more so with the accuracy of his words. He was right—he wanted this, even though he wasn’t sure why, even if it made him a slut that he was afraid to be.

“You don’t—think it’s bad that I wanna do this, do you? When—that other guy, uhm—“

“Do you want me to think it’s bad of you? Because I can play up the whole tramp act all you want. You want me to call you a dirty little boy?”

“N-not exactly,” Clark said, which was only partially a lie. “I mean—I’m not dishonest, am I?”

A different sort of smile landed itself on Bruce’s face as he looked up at him, and the pumping of his hand on Clark’s cock slowed down a bit. If Clark could find a word for the way Bruce was looking at him, he’d say Bruce looked satisfied, maybe even rewarded, and Clark was confused as to why his question has brought upon that sort of expression on the other man. Was this a game he was playing with Clark? It was a pretty elaborate, and mean, game if that was the case.

“I don’t know what kind of man he is, but it sounds like you want something more serious with him if you’re asking if a little fun on the side would be a problem. Maybe he just sees you as a fling, I don’t know, but if talking to him isn’t impossible, maybe you should give that a try, when he’s in the mood to listen.”

Clark contemplated what Bruce had said. He said he didn’t know Batman, but what he had said about talking to him sounded pretty on the nose.

“I guess I’ll try that,” Clark said. Was that what Clark wanted, though? The nervousness in his chest would suggest that, but consciously, Clark wasn’t sure. Did he want more from Batman physically, or emotionally? And how much of it was a result of his heat? “Thanks for the advice; I hope I didn’t make this too weird, or anything.”

“Nah, no problem at all. Now, excuse me, but I’m gonna suck this dick.”

Before Clark could flabbergast and interject, Bruce had slipped his lips over the velvet of Clark’s dick, and he plunged himself onto the shaft almost immediately. Clark was taken aback by how far the man could swallow him, Clark almost bottoming out completely in his throat, and it had him grasping for something to ground him—soon, both hands were gripping the partition, and Clark was worried he’d lose control of his strength, making his identity obvious. He let out a shuddering gasp when he felt the warmth of the man’s mouth completely envelop his member, and when Bruce was pulling away, Clark was scared that he was pulling off completely to recover from such a stunt—however, Bruce was establishing a rhythm of bobbing his head back and forth, the head of Clark’s cock pressing at the back of his throat each time.

“H-holy shit,” he swore, which Clark never did. “This—this feels incredible, oh my God—“

It felt amazing. Clark had never imagined someone else’s mouth could feel so warm, so wet, or that having his cock swallowed in such a way could ever feel as good as it did. His mouth was agape as he was struggling to draw in air, and his mind went completely blank as all it could focus on was the feel of Bruce’s plush lips gliding up and down his dick. Bruce was going slow, at first, and Clark surmised that he was merely getting used to the girth of Clark’s dick, but soon, Bruce’s hands were possessively gripping onto his hips, and he began to pick up the pace.

“This feels—oh, God, Bruce, your mouth—“

Clark couldn’t help but be vocal when something so wonderful was happening to him, and Bruce hummed, seemingly in response, and that sent another electric shock up Clark’s spine, making him shudder. “It’s amazing what you’re doing—do, do you do this sort of thing a lot?”

Clark felt that was a stupid question, but Bruce looked up at him and winked. Clark couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped him. When Bruce wouldn’t turn his gaze away, looking up at him with a serious look in his eyes, Clark drew his bottom lip into his mouth and began to worry it.

“You—you’re really sexy,” he said, feeling humiliated as saying something so blunt, but it rewarded him with another gasp.

Doing things like this sure was easier when Clark turned his brain off, and having such intense pleasure swarm his brain like having someone give him a blowjob was certainly adding to that effect.

Bruce pulled off of Clark’s dick, opting to stroke Clark’s wet dick, and he almost whined, especially when he saw the trail of saliva connecting the tip of his cock with Bruce’s swollen lips. “I want you to keep talking. Even if you think what you’re saying is stupid, I want you to keep going. You’re pretty withdrawn, so I felt I needed to make that clear. Dirty talking is sort of my thing, you have no idea what sort of things I’d be saying if I was given the freedom to speak. So keep going, I like it.”

That just got Clark curious. He’d been leaning against the metal partition, but he righted himself a bit as he tried to push himself to speak, not thinking about his words or any inexperienced nuances implied by what he’d wanted to say. He tried to be courageous, but being Superman was impossible when he had handsome men giving him all sorts of attention. “What—what sort of things would you be saying?”

Bruce hummed again, and he looked at the cock in his hand thoughtfully as he pondered Clark’s question. “You’d be calling me daddy, for starters.” Bruce looked up at Clark, almost for approval, and Clark couldn’t have gotten any redder. “Seems like you like abuse, so I can’t really pull out the ‘small dick’ card, since you’re clearly sporting a sizeable weapon down here.”

“S-small dick?!” Gone was the anxiety and guilt that had rooted itself in Clark’s stomach, and now was the haze of arousal Clark experienced during his heats. It still wasn’t as intense, but thinking rationally was becoming more difficult, all because Bruce was talking about his dick.

“Oh, you like that? Well, I like to give things the old college try, maybe we can just pretend you have a girly little dick.”

Clark had to look up above the partition for a bit in a panic, hoping no one was entering the bathroom when Bruce had said that. He didn’t want him to stop, however. “D-don’t say those things! How is that not embarrassing for you?”

Bruce let out a warm laugh. “I’m sitting here on my knees and I just had your dick in my mouth, and you wanna talk about embarrassing? I can tell you like being embarrassed, though. You’re not telling me to stop. Well, I can see you don’t mean it, at least.”

Clark brought one of his hands to cover his mouth, and Bruce drew in a breath, staring right at him.

“God, you’re so cute. You make the best expressions. It’s hard for me to want to be mean to you, at least like this.”

Clark let out a whimper at the praise, and he had to turn his face away, shutting his eyes. It was so humiliating, but it was making his dick twitch. He didn’t have the constitution to wonder what Bruce had meant when he’d said ‘like this,’ however.

“I wish you could see yourself,” his voice lowered, and he began rubbing circles into his hip with his hand that wasn’t stroking his aching cock. “You’re really sexy, Clark.”

“Stop talking like that,” he murmured, but there was no impact, or sincerity, in his words. He felt completely embarrassed, and Bruce was right—he liked it. He liked it when Batman demeaned him and treated him like a woman, and he liked it, now, when Bruce was being sweet while attempting otherwise. Clark was nervous and hesitant to begin with, but now, part of him was glad that he’d followed through on letting Bruce manhandle him like this, as, now, he was enjoying himself to a degree.

It was still a bad decision, and one Clark recognized, but his arousal was making it harder for him to care, and for that, he was thankful.

“Sure thing, just keep talking to me, say whatever you want. Oh, and let me know when you’re about to cum, I have something for that that I think you’ll like.”

With that, Bruce was back to sucking Clark’s dick, and Clark felt like the wind had been punched out of him. It felt just as good as it’d had before, except, now, Bruce was using his tongue to stroke his cock while his head was moving up and down. The combination of the warmth, the wetness, his soft lips, and his skilled tongue, were enough to pull noises out from Clark, noises that he tried to hush before remembering Bruce wanted to hear them.

Bruce was giving him so much attention, and he had been, even before he got on his knees and practically worshipped Clark’s dick. Bruce hadn’t been on his phone, texting or making calls during what was supposed to have been an interview, which was something Clark found to be common amongst high society that Clark had tried to get a word out of for his paper. Bruce had been focusing on Clark since they’d both sat down at the restaurant—and now, Bruce’s sole focus was on Clark, bringing him pleasure using his own body, and it overwhelmed Clark.

Batman would treat Clark like he was just an inconvenience, like he was a nuisance—actually, more accurately, he treated Clark like he was an itch to scratch, and once the itch was dealt with, he’d go about his business proper. He treated Clark like an afterthought, like Clark’s own wants and needs didn’t matter, like Clark wasn’t even a person, and Clark loved every bit of it. Bruce was treating him like the exact opposite, and he didn’t exactly know how to handle it.

He especially didn’t know how to handle the advancement of finally breaching Bruce’s throat, reaching deep inside of him with the head of his dick, and feeling his muscles contract and twist around him as he’d made swallowing motions. Clark was astonished, his head was thrown back as he was letting out the most lewd moans—how could this have felt any better?

Once Bruce had gotten as much of Clark’s dick down his throat that seemed possible, he stood still, simply flexing his muscles in swallowing motions while looking up at the man he was servicing. Clark was bright red, biting his nails, his eyes blown, as he was basking in the pleasure overloading his senses, and his dick. Bruce looked pleased with what he’d reduced Clark to, and Clark’s legs were shaking terribly.

He had to think of something to say. Bruce wanted him to talk, but Clark was completely floored—he didn’t think he could vocalize his thoughts, even if he’d had any thoughts to voice.

He decided for stating the obvious, and hopefully, something would come to him. “Your—your throat, it feels so good,” he said, licking his lips. “I’ve never—that other guy I’ve been with, he’s never—sorry, it’s hard to think, it just feels so good—“

Bruce closed his eyes and let out another hum before slowly pulling his head back and plunging Clark’s dick down his throat again, forcing out another groan from Clark.

“It feels amazing—your mouth is so—so warm, your tongue feels incredible, I just—I want to stay right here, I won’t be able to jack off by myself ever again, I’ll just--,” he licked his lips again, and he finally brought his hand down from where it had been gripping the partition, sifting his fingers gently through Bruce’s black locks in an affectionate manner. “I won’t b-be able to jack off by myself, all I’ll be able to think about is h-how good you’re making me feel, right now. God, Bruce, it feels so good.”

Bruce let out a low rumble from his throat, and Clark couldn’t help his yelp. His hand went to cover his mouth as an apology; he pulled his fingers away in an attempt to not suppress his sounds.

“Thank you,” he practically whispered, and he continued gently stroking Bruce’s bobbing head. “This is really good, thank you.”

Bruce quickly pulled away again, and now, he was panting, his own, paler face turning a little red. “God, Clark, you have no idea what you do—what you’re doing to me. Everything you’re saying is going straight to my dick, I just want—I want to fuck you, Clark.”

That had Clark feeling nervous again, and even through his heavy arousal, the feelings of guilt were beginning to return.

“But I won’t,” and Clark felt relieved, “unless you want me to. I’m not that kind of guy. I can tell you now, though, that I’ll definitely want to play like this again. Here, hand me your phone, I’m gonna give you my number.”

“You’re what?!”

“Yeah, my number, my personal one, at least.” He’d fished Clark’s phone out, himself, from one of his pockets, and swept his thumb to open the contacts. “You should really put a lock screen on your phone, you don’t want suspicious characters finding out your personal secrets.”

“Suspicious like you?” Clark gave a playful grin, petting Bruce’s head affectionately, one that Bruce responded to once he’d entered his number and slipped it back into his pocket.

“See, now you’re opening up. Now come on, I’m gonna make it a point to get you to cum. How close are you?” Whether or not he was expecting an actual answer seemed to not be the intention of Bruce’s words, as he was back down on Clark’s dick, and Clark didn’t have a chance to respond before his voice was filled with sweet moans of pure pleasure.

Clark was close, admittedly—he was a superhuman, but his limit was short, since he was so inexperienced in his own right. His limit was especially short during his heat, even during the down periods where he wasn’t as lusty. He didn’t want to appear as a man who didn’t last for very long, but it was difficult, what with Bruce’s expert mouth, and his own biology. The promise of another rendezvous like this one helped add to Clark’s arousal.

Bruce bobbed his head up and down for a few moments longer, and each time Clark slid down his throat, and each time Bruce swallowed, he felt himself losing more and more of his composure. He was still able to control his strength, even as he was losing his wits, which he was thankful for, as Bruce’s hair was so soft, and Clark wanted to stroke it all day.

“I’m—getting close,” he finally said, as the pressure inside his balls was welling up more and more. Bruce took this as a sign to significantly increase his pace, and Clark did his best to keep his moaning to a minimum. He was biting his lip, and he was gripping Bruce’s head just a bit tighter—he didn’t want to control the man, or set his own pace; he was merely bracing himself. The pleasure increased twofold, and Clark’s nerves were on fire. It felt incredible, it felt amazing, and Clark knew his end was close.

In the back of Clark’s mind, he felt his chest beginning to tingle, and his nipples began to ache. No, this couldn’t be happening, not here, not right now. It was the cause of his problems with Batman, and this other man, Bruce—he’d wanted another opportunity with him. If Bruce saw Clark lactate, he’d probably think—

“B-Bruce! I’m going to—Bruce, please, stop, I--“

Bruce wasn’t stopping, however. He must have thought that Clark was close—which, he was—and that he was asking him to stop because he wasn’t prepared for the intense explosion of pleasure brought on by an orgasm, when, really, Clark was asking him to stop because, at that moment, at that dreadful moment, Clark was beginning to lactate again.

“Bruce! Please, my chest, it—“

At that, Bruce pulled away, and he made to stand up, setting his hands back on Clark’s sides, like he had been soothing them earlier. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Clark’s hands were hovering above his tits, and he could feel the rush of liquid flowing through them at a rapid pace. “We—we have to stop. It’s not that I’m not enjoying this, I am—I just—I have—I have a certain problem, and it’s—well, it’s rearing its ugly head, I can feel it, and I just—I don’t want to disgust you, or anything. Uhm, can we—continue this later? I know it was just getting good, and—“

Bruce interrupted his disjointed sentence, and placed his hands on top of Clark’s, holding them in his strong hands. “You’re okay, just calm down.” He glanced down momentarily at Clark’s chest, before looking back up to meet his eyes. “What’s bothering you? You said it was your chest, do you have asthma?”

“No, it’s nothing like that—“

“Do you want to tell me so I can just tell you you’re overreacting and go back to making you feel good?” Bruce offered him a smile.

“No, it’s—it’s really weird, it’s not supposed to happen—“ Clark pulled his hands away from Bruce’s comforting ones, covering his chest, but he knew his milk was about to start flowing.

Bruce lightly gripped Clark’s wrist. “Look, I promise you can tell me and that it’ll be fine. I know we’ve only just met, but you can trust me. If I wanted to blackmail you, I could just use the fact that you let me suck your dick in a public restroom. Even if I haven’t got you to cum yet.”

Bruce seemed earnest and honest, and Clark genuinely felt as though he’d be able to trust the man, but he simply couldn’t. Letting Batman know about his lactation was a mistake on its own, and he couldn’t afford to make the same one again.

Then again, Bruce wanted to do more of this in the future, and the promise of such made his dick throb. This was something Bruce had to inevitably find out about, if they were going to have any sort of relationship, and, with Bruce, Clark had nothing to lose. They weren’t already friends, they weren’t even enemies—they were just acquaintances. The only thing that Clark had on the table that was at risk was Bruce’s respect, but he’d lost the respect of some other members of high society for the way he ate, or the way he phrased certain questions.

Would Bruce knowing that he lactated really be such a problem? It certainly wasn’t as big a deal as Bruce finding out that he was Superman. How bad could it be?

Clark really needed to stop listening to his dick. He was getting terrible at making rational decisions.

“If I tell you,” Clark started, and he screwed his eyes shut—he really was making the same mistake, wasn’t he. “You have to promise not to tell anyone else. Absolutely no one can know about this. Even if you decide you don’t—want to do anything else with me, you have to keep this as a secret, okay?”

“Don’t worry, kid, I’m great with secrets.”

Clark sensed some truth in the other man’s words, a sense of knowing, and that was what tipped him over the edge and caused the truth of his shameful predicament to come forth.

He pulled his hands down, away from his pecs, as he felt the first droplet of liquid beginning to bud from his nipple. “And don’t laugh, either.”

“I won’t, unless you tell me a good joke.” Bruce’s eyes were transfixed upon his chest, and he slipped one of his hands casually into his pocket.

“I’m serious!,” he couldn’t help the little smile, at least. “Okay, so, uhm—this is really embarrassing, and something only my family and—and that other guy I’ve told you know about.”

“I must be a really lucky fellow for you to trust me enough to tell me.”

“Well, to be honest, I’m not really losing anything if you decide I’m a freak for—for my body acting this way.”

“Let’s not jump to the worst case scenario; who knows, I might think it’s the sexiest thing on the planet.”

“Yeah, I kind of doubt that,” Clark rubbed at the back of his head. Then again, Batman seemed rather entranced by his breasts producing milk. Batman seemed rather fascinated, actually, to the point that he wanted Clark to use the pump in his own spare time. Batman wouldn’t get a taste this time, unfortunately.

“So,” Clark started back up again, “my body—it only does this a few days out of the month. It’s not an everyday thing, heck, I don’t think I’d be able to tolerate it if it was. My body goes through this—cycle—where it—well, where it—it produces m-milk.”

Clark visibly winced and looked away; he couldn’t look at Bruce as he worked through his emotions before settling on disgust. Even though Clark had talked himself up to tell the other man, even though Clark had convinced himself that nothing was at risk, he still didn’t want to deal with the direct rejection that was more than imminent. Clark’s dick was beginning to wince and lose the blood that had been pumping through it and fueling his erection.

“So you’re telling me you lactate?”

Bruce didn’t seem particularly phased; had he dealt with this sort of thing before? But this was so uncommon, such a rare occurrence! He didn’t even mention the worst part about his biology—how his body will go into heat, how his judgment will be muddled, how he’ll crave his orgasms like a dragon hoards gold. He didn’t tell him that his heat was dully affecting him now, causing him to make the rash decisions he was following through on.

“Yeah,” Clark said, defeated. “I know, it’s really weird. It’s a huge pain when it happens, too—I always have to be aware of it when it’s my, uh, t-time of the month. It’s something I’m always conscious of, and it can get tiresome.”

Bruce had tilted his head back and brought up a curious finger to his chin. “Are you about to start lactating now? That’s why we had to stop?”

And then that smirk was back, and Clark immediately knew what was on the other man’s mind. He shot up his hands and waved them defensively, his blush creeping back onto his face.

“Please, Bruce! Really, it’s weird, it’s not sexy at all!” That’s not what Batman thought about it, and now, he had another man lusting after him, interested in his breasts.

Bruce brought both of his hands up to begin gently caressing Clark’s chest, and Clark shuddered at the contact—his breasts were so sensitive. Bruce was stroking the edges of his pectorals, the tips of his fingers sending sparks through Clark’s nerves, massaging the underside of his breasts, and playing lightly with his nipples. Clark began breathing hard through his nose—he didn’t think he could handle this.

“I really want to see what it looks like. And I have a few questions of my own, but I was expecting the blowjob and that whole shebang to be done by now; we’ve been in here a while, wouldn’t you say? Surprisingly, no one’s walked in. Guess you could count us lucky for that.”

Bruce lightly pinched Clark’s nipples and tugged them taut, and Clark let out a gasp. A bead of milk formed at the tip of one of his nipples, and a stream of milk began flowing forth. Bruce looked at him with much appreciation, and he even saw Bruce licking his lips.

“Yes, this is good, a very interesting development, indeed. Tell you what—since you decided to spring something so delectable on me at the last minute, I’m gonna punish you.”

“Y-you mean, you don’t think it’s gross?”

“Oh, quite the contrary. This is one of the sexiest things I’ve seen in a long time, and I didn’t think I’d be into it, to tell you the truth. I definitely want to see more of this—I’m staying in a hotel here in Metropolis for the time being. You know, being a public figure, good public relations and all that. What time do you get off work? I’ll arrange—ah, we can get to that later. In the meantime, I’m gonna sit here and play with your tits while you jerk yourself off.”

“But,” Clark started, but his hand was already beginning to obey. “I have an—an engagement after work, and wouldn’t it be sort of inappropriate for us to meet up again, especially under circumstances like that?”

“Baby, the fewer questions you ask, the better. Don’t worry, daddy will make it work. Get your hand working, I can see your dick’s already starting to wilt, and we’ve gotta finish this up soon, as much as I wanna spend time with your lovely body.”

Batman wasn’t talkative, and when he did talk, even outside of their sexual encounters, it was dismissive and insulting. It did things to Clark that made his stomach do flips. Bruce, on the other hand, was being so sweet, so caring—as caring as Clark could imagine, anyway, given how this was only the second person he’d been with—and he was the polar opposite to Batman. He was still establishing himself as the dominant one, but Clark didn’t know how much of that was his own fantasies and kinks coming into play, or how much of it was factual and real. He decided not to think about it, because he liked it, either way. When Bruce would call him “baby”, his stomach did those same flips.

His dick hadn’t gone down too much, and he wrapped a tight hand around his cock and began fisting it, much like he’d had twice that morning. Bruce was looking at his chest like they were to bring him to salvation as he continued stroking them—soon, he had enough of being gentle, and he began to squeeze them, causing Clark to let out a little cry.

“You’re sensitive, like you said. You know, Clark, it looks like you have a pair of breasts—your pecs are so defined, and your nipples are a little big. And with them making milk, are you sure you’re not just a woman?”

Oh, here it goes. Clark’s favorite thing that Batman would do—refer to his chest as breasts, and treat him like a cheap woman. Clark tossed his head back, and his fist began pumping even faster. Soon, his dick was at full mast again, and pleasure was rocketing itself through his body. His other hand came up to brace himself against the wall of the stall.

“You like that, don’t you? You sure are kinky, Clark, I wasn’t expecting any of this when I first met you. You seemed like an honest, albeit bumbling, man. Look at that, your tits are practically pouring out milk. Your body is so obvious; I wonder how that other guy will feel knowing you’re whoring yourself like this.”

His dick was throbbing, practically aching, and release couldn’t be further away. “I—I’m not—“

“You’re not? You’re in some bathroom of some restaurant letting a strange man put his hands all over you. I wonder if that’s how it was with that other guy, if you just let him accost you and do whatever you wanted because of your aching tits—any relief would be enough to satisfy you. He knows about the fact that your tits make milk, I wonder how much he sexualizes that. I wonder if he treats you like an object. I wonder if--” Bruce punctuated his words with a rather sharp tug to his nipples, and Clark was literally whimpering.

“Please, I have to cum so bad, this is so good—Bruce, everything you’re saying is—“

“Shut up,” Bruce said, his voice suddenly deeper and rougher. He sounded like someone doing an imitation of Batman, and it only made Clark whimper more. “God, if we weren’t in this bathroom right now, if we were at my hotel, you’d be begging me to cum for hours. Has that guy ever denied you an orgasm? Has he ever gripped the base of your dick, enough to make you scream and beg to be allowed to let go?”

“Please, Bruce, please—“

“There are so many things I want to do to you, Clark Kent. I want to fuck you so hard.” He was pulling on his nipples again, and alternating between tugs and gripping his tits enough to leave marks; his milk was flowing steadily, its smell began to permeate in the air, and Bruce’s voice was right in his ear. “I want to fuck your pussy so hard, I’ll have you crying. That other guy, has he fucked you yet? Has he made you his little bitch?”

“He—he hasn’t—please, Bruce, I have to cum—“

“Not yet, I’m not done talking yet. If I have you first, if I make you mine and you went back to that other guy, I wonder what he’d think. I wonder if he’d punish you for being a little whore, for sleeping with other men before you slept with him. I wonder if he’d take it out on you, if he’d make sure you knew you were his. That you were his object. That you were my—“

Clark wasn’t sure what it was that Bruce had said that finally allowed him to reach his limit. Maybe it was the gruff voice, so similar to the man he’d shared encounters with before; maybe it was referring to Clark as an object; maybe it was imagining Batman being rough with him, biting him, leaving marks, claiming him, making sure Clark was his, that finally tipped Clark over the edge. He couldn’t hear himself, but he was apologizing as a white hot explosion shot behind his eyes, as his hand became more and more desperate and speedy with reaching his orgasm, streaks of semen shooting from his dick. He’d only barely maintained enough control over himself to not knock down the wall.

He’d came down, and he was panting. Bruce had taken a step away so as not to get the semen all over him, and he smiled, adjusting his collar a bit.

“You’re really hot when you cum. The other guy tell you that?”

Clark was struggling with being able to breathe, and he brought a hand up to his chest to try to steady himself. “He—he’s not as nice as you, Bruce, I can tell you that much.”

“It’s cute how you call what I did being nice; I was trying to play into that whole aggressive persona you mentioned liking with that other guy. I hope he won’t get too jealous knowing I played with his toy.” He’d torn a bit of the toilet paper off of the roll, and handed it to Clark. “You get nice and cleaned up in here. Text me, or whatever, when you get off work, I’ll send for someone to pick you up and bring you to my place. Don’t worry about public appearances, I do this sort of thing all the time. We’ll meet up later and play some more, okay?”

“But,” Clark had wiped off his hand, and he began reassembling his outfit. “But, Bruce, like I said, I have—“

“That engagement can wait, can’t it?” Bruce unlocked the stall and headed out, not before shooting Clark one last wink and a wave. “Oh, I took care of the bill, too, so don’t worry about that.”

“But Bruce, Bruce!” Clark stuck his head out of the stall, only to watch Bruce aptly leave.

The engagement couldn’t wait. League meetings were a serious affair! Now that he’d had an affair with Bruce Wayne, however, Clark was worried how Batman would handle it.

Just the thought of Bruce gripping his jaw, telling him to learn his place, and that only Batman could put his hands on him, made his spent dick throb.

This was so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be more plot-based, since writing smut is kind of hard for me, so for those of you sticking around for that, look forward to it! Like last time, if you want to get into more personal contact with my, follow my Tumblr at http://stardust-empyrean.tumblr.com!


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